Danse Macabre
by ramblelite
Summary: Neal didn't want to dance with Her, but She is the Girl with Golden Eyes, and She always gets Her way. (Neal is taken hostage by a man only known as V. He wants to use Neal's talents for his own sinister motives, and he will make damn sure Caffrey has no other choice but to obey.) Neal!Whump, abuse of drugs. Definitely dark. Enter my mind...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello lovelies. Welcome to the first chapter of Danse Macabre. This story has been bouncing around in my head for quite a while, and I was finally able to bring it to life. This is gonna be a good one, so get ready for the ride. If you enjoy, let me know. I would love to hear what you all think. Love to all.**

Chapter 1

Normalcy makes Peter Burke anxious. When things go right for just a little too long, suspicion starts to bubble up within him, growing closer to boiling the longer the disconcerting lack of _things_ continues.

It reminds him of when he and El first got Satchmo all those years ago. The young pup was constantly bothering Peter to be taken outside so he could relieve himself. While it did get on Peter's nerves a bit, it was much better than not hearing the whining for a while, only to later find Satchmo sitting next to a mess in the living room, tail between his legs in guilty shame.

Here, now, as Peter sits at his desk, tapping a pen on the surface as he looks over files, he's reminded why silence worries him.

Neal isn't looming over his shoulder, incessantly chattering on about that weird silent French film that he saw this weekend. The one about the mime who lives his life backwards. It was genius, Peter absolutely has to see it.

He isn't causing trouble in the hallway, flipping cards back and forth as he performs tricks in attempts to prove to the rest of the team that he can outsmart any agent in the building.

He isn't even at the coffee maker, exchanging hushed conversation with various women around the office, leaning in just enough to make them want more, but never getting too close.

Neal isn't doing any of those things, because Neal isn't here.

After waiting 20 minutes to see if he'll show, then calling him once, twice, three times and getting nothing but voicemail, Peter pounds a fist on the table once in his frustration, calling out to Diana.

"Get Neal's tracking info, he's not answering."

They find him at a warehouse, supposedly abandoned. What the hell was he doing in a warehouse? The location alone is enough to worry them, and they're out the door in a matter of moments, preparing for the worst.

++++++++++++++++

The teddy bear perched upon a sole chair in the middle of the vast expanse of the warehouse sends chills down Peter's spine. It's not the bear itself; the bear is innocent enough, but it's the fact that the bear is there. And Neal is not.

The green blinking light on the tracking anklet strapped around the bear's neck makes his stomach flip over, and he freezes as the terror begins to grip him. Diana picks up the postcard in the bear's lap, flipping it over to read it aloud.  
"Don't bother looking. Just borrowing him. I'll bring him back safe and sound when done. I promise. -V." She glances up. "Who's V?"

Peter doesn't look up at Diana when he slowly shakes his head. He doesn't know who V is, but he does know that when he finds him, he's gonna kill him.

+++++++++++++

Neal couldn't help but admire the gorgeous quill his captor held in his deft fingers. If Neal shut his eyes, and shuts out the damp basement made of stone, so broad in size it was intimidating, misleading (a space this large, being used in complete confidence by his captor, Neal knew no one would find him anytime soon) in its vastness… if he shut his eyes and just listened to his own steady breathing and the gentle, soothing scratch of the quill on paper, he could pretend he wasn't here.

The scratching suddenly stops, and Neal's eyes crack open again. The man who has dared take Neal, the small, thin and wiry man with the giant air of confidence, was glancing over at him. "What are you thinking about right now, Pet?"

Neal winced at the name. He didn't want to be considered Peter's pet, his sniffer dog on a tight leash. He liked to think of himself as an asset to the team, but more than that, a friend to Peter, but at the end of the day, he knows his place. He shrugs. "Just thinking about how good it's going to feel when Peter slaps cuffs on you and locks you up."

The man smirks. "The way I've done to you?"

Neal rolls his eyes, looking back down at the cracks in the cement, then glancing to the cuffs daring to pierce and mar his skin. He's sitting in the corner of the room, knees up, still wearing the suit he had on when he was taken. The jacket is crumpled on the floor by his feet, and his sleeves are rolled up, but everything else is the same. He's even still wearing his hat. It's a piece of him he's not ready to give up, it would be a demonstration of abandoning self, and Neal wasn't about to abandon himself. Not yet. He still had hope. Four days. Four dances with the Girl with Golden Eyes. At first, She wasn't his type. But She was an acquired taste. Over time, he could feel himself falling in love with Her. Was this love? Was any of it real?

Is he in a dream?

The rawness on the inside of his elbow where the needle pricked his skin is itching uncontrollably, but the cuffs pinning his hands to the wall prevent him from relieving the itch.

"How are you feeling now?" the man casually murmurs when he looks back down at his paper. The desk he sits at is ornate, made of deep, cherry wood and carved with a meticulous renaissance hand. It looks out of place here.

Neal's eyes shift up towards the ceiling, as he searches the heavens through the cement barrier blocking him. He can't connect with God when he's fifty feet underground. He's feeling a lot of things. All at once. The rush hit him like a punch in the gut, the most glorious display of physical violence he had ever experienced. The torture was orgasmic. The pain was fleeting.

It was so wrong, but all so right. He had soared. The substance turned to sweet gold as soon as it entered his veins, and carefully painted the liquid throughout him, coating him with 50 karats of protection from pain, harm, hate, sadness, wrongness, regret, memory.

He never wanted to do it again. It was perfect.

Time slowly melted the feeling away, but it stayed with him for hours. Pulsing through him, free of pain, free of need. Just need for the feeling, that's all there was. Once it had faded away, it took every bit of Neal's soul with it, just leaving emptiness, cold, and terror. Terror that gripped him as his physical self betrayed his mind, crying out for the feeling to return.

"You need your medicine, Neal. You don't look well." The care in the man's voice was just a layer of flesh. A cunning sculpture that could convince one of its truth, but held nothing inside. The man didn't mean these words.

"I'm fine. Just get back to your work."

"Now, now, of course not. What kind of man would I be if I didn't provide for my hostage in his time of need?"

"I don't need anything."

"My doctor will be right in."

Neal squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want this.

When the man called The Doctor floats in from a dark corner of the room, Neal begins to shake. He doesn't want this.

He tilts his head back, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw as the tourniquet begins to choke his veins. He doesn't want this.

Please.

Don't.

The needle pricks his skin. He hisses at the pain.

Suddenly, the pain is gone. It never existed. It's a myth. His head drops forward, and his hat drops to the floor by his feet. Neal Caffrey has left the building. The Girl with Golden Eyes appears in front of him. She wants to dance.


	2. Dreams of Leaving

Chapter 2

"I've gone through every database, Boss."

"Looking for V?"

Diana nods. "Any person of interest with a name starting with V, first or last, is either known to be in another country, incarcerated, or dead."

Peter growls in frustration and pounds a fist against the conference room table. Seven days, and they still have nothing. A week, and nothing to show for it. Nothing on Neal. Nothing from V. They traced back Neal's tracking info, which only led to confusion. Neal had been at the Bureau right before he went to the Warehouse. They pulled up cams around the Bureau to see if they could find who had taken him, but all they saw was Neal going to open the Bureau door, hesitating, then turning and walking the other way. He went there on his own. Something convinced him. Something enticed him. The constantly furrowed brow and frown on Peter's face speaks volumes to Jones and Diana. Their boss is starting to lose hope.

Diana keeps her head down, and Jones glares at the floor, clenching his jaw as he thinks.

_Plink._

_Plink._

_Plink._

The three glance out the window at the source of the noise.

"What the hell…" Peter mutters, squinting to focus.

Diana raises her eyebrows. "I'll be damned."

A small toy helicopter is repeatedly ramming itself against the window. Jones blinks, then shakes out of it and approaches the window, looking down at the toy people milling about on the street below. He scans the crowd, but another _plink_ causes him to jump, and his focus snaps up to the helicopter. A detail behind the helicopter catches his eye, and he focuses in on the building directly behind the small aircraft, into the window.

He scoffs. "Would you look at that. It's the little guy."

Peter blinks, then crosses to the window, shaking his head and waving an arm. _What the hell are you doing, Mozzie_?

Mozzie waves a hand, and up and above their heads, toward the sky above the FBI building. Diana glances up. "The roof. He wants us to go to the roof."

The agents immediately jump into action, briskly walking towards the elevator, slowing when they pass others so as not to create suspicion. Once on the top floor, they jog down the hall, throwing open the roof access doors and slowing to a stop. Jones cautiously steps forward and glances around, shrugging. "There's nothing here."

A slight buzzing sound hums in Peter's ear, and he holds up a hand to quiet them, as the buzzing gets louder. The helicopter suddenly peeks up from over the wall of the roof guard, and Diana relaxes her shoulders, rolling her eyes. Peter groans as he crosses towards it, and stops when it suddenly cuts out of the control and drops at his feet.

"Seriously?" Jones scoffs, and Peter shakes his head, picking it up. A cigarette is poking out of the window, and Peter pulls it out. Tiny handwriting adorns the side, in velvety black thin ink, just one line. _Irvin Melendez_. He repeats the name out loud.

"Find me everything you can on this guy," he calls over his shoulder, but when he doesn't hear a response, he turns around to see that they're halfway down the hall, already on it. He grins, looking down, before heading back down after them. When they're back in the office looking over files on Melendez, who is apparently a local muscle for hire with a rap sheet for drugs, they hear the _plink_ one more time. Peter glances up, and he can barely make out Mozzie's features in the window in the faraway building, but he sees him smile. He puts his hands together, bowing once in silent thanks.

* * *

"Answer me."

Neal is barely able to blink, squinting into the blinding light, and he manages to bring up a shaking hand to shield his eyes. The cuffs are gone, it's a wicked trick. It's a small morsel, some semblance of hope for freedom. Inwardly, Neal knows he's not free. Even through the fog delivered by the needle in the form of his daily dose, he can acknowledge this much. The door at the top of the stairs is open, light is pouring in and bathing him in a burning sensation, and a silhouette in the doorway is asking him a question.

He parts his lips and tries to speak, but his dry throat just produces a rough crack. He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing, and when he does speak, his voice comes out quiet and rasped. "W- What?"

"I asked, how are you doing today?"

The pleasantry is not pleasant. The question is condescending and menacing. Neal's eyes are still squeezed shut as his head swims, and he slams his hand back down onto the concrete to steady himself. "You don't care how I'm doing," he manages, what he intended to be a growl barely coming out a rasping whisper.

The man chuckles. His voice maintains its melodic lilt. Smooth. A slight Spanish accent, but nearly undetectable after years in the United States. And almost deceptively charming.

"Of course I do. I wouldn't want you to be in pain."

Neal grimaces, letting his head drop back against the wall, chin tilted towards the ceiling when he gasps in the pain the chilling voice doesn't want him to be in. He's taken. The Girl with Golden Eyes has married him, and he's forever at Her mercy. He hates Her, but Her beauty is blinding, and when She asks him to dance, he can't say no. "Then make it stop," he groans.

"I can do that."

"Give it to me."

"No, no, no. That's not how this works. You know that." The figure steps into light. Serafin Valentino was a man without a face, but once he showed Neal some small hint of mercy and provided a light, just to remind Neal he was still alive, the man became real. His jet black hair is carefully sculpted into a pompadour, his olive skin wearing bold Spanish features, but his eyes are bright hazel, shining under thick lashes as he glares down at Neal. "You want your medicine, you do something for me, first."

Neal tries to look up, but his head is heavy, and his eyes quickly flutter shut as his head drops back against the wall again, wincing upon the impact and feeling it shake through his skull. "That's not the deal," he murmurs, almost slurring. "Other way around. I can't help you right now."

V quickly steps a bit closer. "Don't try to play me, Caffrey. I know my leverage, I give you this and you have no reason to help me. Get up."

Neal draws a sharp breath, and pushes himself up, staggering slightly when he does, eyeing the parcel in V's gripped fist.

Neal slowly wanders out, keeping his eyes on V. When he's standing right next to him, the man suddenly slaps him on the back, pushing him forward. The sudden blow causes Neal to sputter, and he clears his throat, stumbling up the stairs with V trailing close behind, monitoring him closely, a jungle cat studying his prey.

The door slams, and Neal winces where he sits, squeezing his eyes shut at the pounding in his skull caused by the sound.

A file folder smacks against the deep wood of the table, the second loud noise shaking him to the core.

"Why so jumpy?" V asks, raising his eyebrows. Neal keeps his eyes down, reaching into the box and pulling out the papers, scanning over the letters on the page. V studies Neal. "We need to know what it is."

"It's a code," Neal mutters, still glancing over the pages. V clicks his tongue in agreement. "What is it for?"

V crosses to the other side of the table, pressing his palms against the wood and glaring down at Neal. "These are messages exchanged by my competition. I am the biggest game on the East Coast, and I'm looking to expand. They want to hit the new market first. I need to know what they say."

Neal raises his eyebrows, still searching over the letters, his hands curled into shaking fists on the table. He squeezes his eyes shut when the letters start to slip in and out of focus, and he brings a palm to his forehead, rubbing vigorously. "It's… I don't know, I can't think; it's…" He clenches his jaw, trying to focus. "There's more to it. This has something else associated with it." V raises his eyebrows, and Neal starts rummaging through the remainder of the files in the folder, quickly scanning over the pages. He glances up at V. "I need a pencil."

V pulls a pen from his pocket and hands it to Neal, who begins circling lines of shipment numbers for a company called EAST MEDICAL SUPPLY and scratching things down in the margins. V stares over his shoulder. "What is it."

"It's a one-time pad. Used only once before it's burnt, but if you can't connect it the associated formula, it's uncrackable. You find the number set associated with the letter set, use the numbers to translate how many letters down each letter actually is. If the first letter is C, and the first number in the separate set is 4, the C becomes a G." He continues scrawling things, blinking furiously when he can't steady his hand, then he squeezes his eyes shut, dropping the pen and bringing two fingers to his temple, his blood turning to thick, burning lava struggling to move through his veins. His voice shakes as he keeps his chin tilted down, trying to swallow the bile quickly rising up his throat. "Please," he mutters. "I cracked it. You can decode it from here." He won't look up at V as he begs. V just studies him for a moment, then sighs, before glancing to the side of the large, empty hall and calling out. "Irvin. Take Mr. Caffrey back to his quarters. Give him what he wants."

A broad-shouldered bouncer type saunters in, roughly grabbing Neal by the back of his shirt and yanking him up. Neal just stumbles behind, keeping his eyes cast down.

When Irvin throws him into the cellar, he staggers into the wall, but manages to keep himself up, refusing to fall in front of V's thug. Irvin tosses a metal lockbox into the cell, and Neal winces when it clatters to the floor. When Irvin leaves and slams the steel door at the top of the stairs shut behind him, all light disappears, save the small bulb swinging from a cord in the middle of the ceiling of the cellar.

Neal takes a shaky inward breath, studying the box, and he slides a hand into his pocket, grasping for the key that now never leaves his side.

He can't keep his hand steady as he tries to guide the key into the keyhole, and as he gets more and more frustrated, the shaking gets worse. He sighs sharply in relief when he finally succeeds, hearing the box creak as he opens it. This is the worst part of all of it. He knows exactly what he's doing, he has a choice. He's buried his dignity, letting this man use his talents in exchange for his next hit. Anything to stop the pain.

And this man is not using Neal's talents for good.

The other part of this that scares him, the part he feels sick with shame for, is his rapid assembly of the materials he needs for his relief. His deft fingers scream experience. He's doing this to himself, he's doing it right, and he's doing it as quickly as he can. He has two reasons to hate this, but two reasons to love it more: it keeps the pain at bay, the heat that swims through him and assaults his muscles, singeing them. They writhe to escape the flick of the flame, and cramp and contract into knots to protect themselves, causing him to double over. But beyond the physical pain, he just needs to escape this. This is hell, this is torture, and when he finds himself conscious and sober, it's just a prodding, stabbing reminder of the nightmare he's living. He just wants to escape it. Once the cocktail is prepped, he struggles to manipulate shaking hands to tie the strip of rubber around his upper arm. As soon as it's set in place and the end is in sight, however, the shaking stops. With the cleanest of movements, he slides the needle into the vein, pulls the plunger back, then sinks it forward again. His eyes glaze over and he staggers back slightly, slamming into the wall. When his brain fails him and he loses control of his own movements, the syringe slips from his fingers and clatters against the cement. The wave crashes over him, and he lets himself sink to the floor, his eyes drifting shut and his arms thrown over his raised knees.

The buzzing stops, the pounding in his skull dulls. Peace, and freedom. Free of the thoughts of self-hate and disgust that gnaw at him every moment he's clear-headed enough to think. Think about what's happening to him, think about what he's become, think about the pain he's grown to know every time he wakes up in a heated sweat.

Now, in this moment, he doesn't know a damn thing, and knowing nothing is better than knowing at all.

Neal hugs himself close as he rocks back and forth, eyes gently shut, just swaying to the rhythm of his slowing heartbeat. It's music to his ears, and the music swims through him, darting across his veins and finally exiting through his dry lips in the form of a small moan.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY

The deep, shining wood of his desk distorts his reflection as he stares down into it, not focusing on anything specific. Just staring as his heart pounds. The sinking feeling in his chest taunts him with the idea that Neal may not even be alive anymore, and he grips his stomach in pain, trying to crush the feeling.

"You okay, Boss?" Diana's voice breaks through the pain and brings Peter back to attention, and he glances up, distracted.

"Huh? Yeah. What have you got?" The thinness of the file she slides to him delivers the bad news: they don't have much. The information he finds inside makes his heart stop. Irvin Melendez is dead.

"He was found in the street, dead of a heroin overdose. We've been able to pull from cams to trace his route back to where he got the drugs. The connect is a guy named Rudy Cordova. He's under Serafin Valentino's thumb."

Peter glances up at this, the realization slamming his gut. "V."

Diana nods. "Biggest drug power this side of the Mississippi. He WAS the biggest game in Europe. Spotless record, been able to avoid any snags with law enforcement until a deal involving some powerful people in Spain went wrong last year. He fled the country."

"He wants blood."

"He needs to get to the Spaniards without going after them in person; he's in hiding, he can't risk being found."

The slight gnawing feeling in Peter's stomach screams for Peter to listen to his gut. Valentino has Neal. He knows it, more certain that he's ever been of anything in his life. This man wants to get revenge, he'll use Neal to get there. Peter swallows, eyes searching the floor as the dread turns his blood to ice. "Find him."


	3. Difference Between Medicine and Poison

**A/N: Hey loves. Just a little something for all you lovely people. Just a fair warning, this chapter is quite violent, if that will bother you, please refrain from reading. I don't want to scar anyone. In addition, I don't own the lyrics below, though I wish I did. Maybe Sixx A.M. will let me borrow them for a day. **

Chapter 3

_"I wish I never kissed her, 'cause I just can't resist her. The Girl with Golden Eyes. Every time she whispers, 'Take me in your arms, the way you did last night.'_

_Everything will be okay. Everything will be alright, if I can get away from her, and save my worthless life."_

_-__**Girl with Golden Eyes, Sixx A.M.**_

* * *

_Conditions are worsening, boss._

**_"So you're just gonna give up? Not on my watch, soldier. You weren't drafted just so you could give up!"_**

_I'm getting close, boss. I don't know how much longer I can hold on._

**_"Cowboy up, soldier!"_**

* * *

Neal blinks, shaking out of his daydream and glancing around the room. Peter's signature phrase was what did it. For a second, he thought Peter may have been here. Here to save him.

But he's not. And Neal is still here, rotting in this decrepit cellar, doing anything and everything V asks in exchange for his next hit. That's all he cares about anymore.

Half-hatched plans and schemes to escape no longer occupy Neal's mind, nothing remains to distract him from the Hell he was in. He had abandoned self and given in completely. There was no hope.

It had been at least a month. At least, that is what Neal estimates. It used to be easier to keep track, he just had to count the marks. One hit per day was enough at first, and he could just take a quick inventory of the evidence on his arms. Now the need was more urgent. Certainly more than once a day. No longer purely psychological as an escape from these terrors, he needed it just to get through. He needed it to stop the horrific pain, the waves of nausea that assaulted him, the crippling aches in his muscles that refused to let go.

Who knows how long he's been here.

"Pet!" The voice tears through his thoughts and snaps him back into at least a vague sense of awareness. Neal's brain has melted, and he's in a disassociated fog.

He just provides a light grunt in response, and the voice chuckles, then steps into the light, staring down at Neal with his sharp hazel eyes. "I have a job for you, Pet."

The glint of the needle when it hits the light catches Neal's eye.

* * *

Peter was starting to lose it. He would never admit it, but it was evident. Not overwhelmingly obvious, but certainly understandable. Neal had been missing for nearly two months, now.

He was losing focus. He was withdrawing from his team. He was irritable. He was in a panic.

"Boss, I've compiled work-ups on every player and name associated with Valentino in the last five years. The bad deal went down 4 years ago, so that gives us room to examine anyone associated with him in the year leading up to the event." Peter just nods faintly, still staring out the window from his office chair. Diana sighs, setting the file down on Peter's desk. "What can I do to help, boss?"

He's silent for a minute, then speaks again, still not looking back at her. "How many people are on that list?"

"152."

"Divide them into accomplices and enemies."

"Already did, boss."

He nods. "Narrow it down to 100. Don't make any assumptions, but dig up everything you can to positively eliminate at least 52 people, if not more. Get me a separate list of which of those 100 are in the New York and surrounding area."

"I'm on it."

He smiles faintly to himself, glancing down when she goes.

* * *

The drugs provide sweet solace. A reprieve necessary for Neal to make it through the next hour of each day. They silence the pain searing through him, they shove away the crushing realization that he has abandoned all sense of self, and they make him forget the things, the terrible things, V is having him do, just so he can get his next hit. And he does them. Willingly, because he needs it. He needs his reprieve.

The long road he wanders doesn't seem to have an end, much like Neal's days now. They just go, and go, onward and forward, without actually moving anywhere. And the end is nowhere in sight. He stumbles along, in a daze, barely holding on to the briefcase V had shoved into his hands before he sent him off. Open it when you get there. You'll know what to do.

He doesn't know if he can go through with it. Worse is the fact that he's considering it, to feed his own selfish desire. No, that's not right. This isn't a desire. This isn't some shiny piece of history or a masterpiece that catches his eye. It's a need. It's survival, kicking in. The ache in Neal's chest is dull. He knows it should be stronger, he knows what V wants him to do, and it makes him sick with shame, but his emotions are weak and rotting, a rapidly spreading cancer of the soul that has no cure.

Thus far, he hasn't been asked to do anything this serious. Mostly just using his confidence tricks to acquire various pieces of information, valuable objects, or to facilitate drug transactions. Occasionally he would be asked to SEND A MESSAGE to someone V didn't particularly like. Just scare him a little bit. Neal didn't like scaring people. He's starting to drift into a moment of mental lapse as his deluded thoughts begin to cloud with the withdrawal, when he sees it.

The house. The small bulbs over the door provide the only light in the late hour. He doesn't want to go inside. He doesn't want to do this. He knows he can't do this. The entirety of the walk consisted of half-baked schemes and plots to calculate a way out of this, but his mind is infected, along with his soul, and his heart. He can't think of a damn thing. When he opens the briefcase his stomach flips, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment when he sees the gun. He then assembles it with terrifyingly smooth experience.

With shaking hands, he picks the lock on the door, the creak as it opens burrowing into his ears. He winces, and pushes the rusted door open all the way, carefully wandering in, the gun pressed against his side to keep it out of sight.

"Excuse me?" Neal glances up after retrieving the briefcase when he hears the voice, seeing a young woman with beautifully crafted Spanish features sitting at a table with various documents spread over the surface. She studies him, concerned. He swallows the bile rising up in his throat and shuts the door behind him. He can't bring himself to speak. She keeps her eyes on Neal. "I don't have any money," she admits quietly, with care. "Please don't harm my family." Neal's heart pounds. She's frightened of him. He's frightening someone. This isn't right. This is not who Neal is.

A man, slightly older, appears in the doorway, his face hardening as soon as he sees Neal. "Can I help you?"

Neal glances at the door behind him. Is it too late to run? "I think we should have a talk outside," he manages, his voice shaking uncontrollably with the fear of who he's become.

The man stops, then nods once, looking down. He knows why Neal is here. He motions to a separate door, the back door, and Neal follows him out, nodding to the woman at the table.

"V sent you," the man finally acknowledges, after a moment, keeping his eyes down as he studies the fading, failing patch of grass in his small backyard. Neal glances at the abandoned alley that lines the backyard, scans the bright fluorescent streetlights that stare down at what he's about to do, then looks in the open window at the woman at the table. She's beautiful. He looks back to the man.

"Vincent Camarillo." The man nods. Neal swallows. "I-"

Vincent cuts him off. "I know why you're here. And I'll let you get to it, but let me ask you something first. What's he got you on?" Neal freezes, eyes wide, and he swallows. He's suddenly made aware of Her presence. The Girl with Golden Eyes. She's there, and he feels Her grip his hand, pulling him towards Her. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows again. "What did he get you with? Why are you doing this? What do you need so badly that you'd be willing to kill me for it?"

Maybe Vincent can help him. There's a trace of care in his voice, real care. Not just a mask. Something about the brokenness in Vincent's eyes confirms for Neal… he identifies. He's been where Neal is. Vincent rolls up a sleeve, stretching out an arm. Neal feels sick when he sees them, dozens and dozens of scars. Tiny dark circles, pinpoints surrounded by thickened, reddened skin, the result of the desperate need for reprieve, barely hanging on to survival. Neal's breath comes out in a shaky stream, and he searches the sky, trying to keep himself composed. Vincent clears his throat, and nods to Neal's arm. The conman hesitates, then carefully rolls up his own sleeve, wincing as he sees the physical proof that he's no longer a man, but just an empty shell V is filling. Filling Neal up with Her. Vincent inhales sharply, then lifts his gaze back up to Neal, studying the man and his quickly diminishing hope.

Neal takes a deep breath, just studying his own arm for a moment. The punctures look painted on. He can't believe they're real. He doesn't look up when he speaks, his voice wavering slightly as the nausea begins to awaken and the aching in his bones starts to pulse. "I was sent here to kill you. Why?"

"Because I wanted out. Because I couldn't keep living that way. Because I'm not on his side anymore."

"Which side are you on?"

Before Vincent has a chance to answer, a rattling echo of a gunshot slams Neal's ears, and he doesn't even have time to react. He winces, throwing up his hands to protect himself and dropping to his knees. Silence.

He carefully cracks his eyes open, and gags at the sight in front of him, his fingers gripping the dying grass as he leans forward and his stomach collapses in on itself. The bullet has sped through Vincent's skull, causing it to explode outward in a downpour of crimson-colored stolen life. A shrill scream pierces Neal's ears, but he can't look away. He's frozen, shaking uncontrollably as he stares at the man who was feeding him tiny servings of hope just a few seconds ago, but is now dead on the ground, watering the neglected patch of grass with his blood. The woman scrambles out the door, sobbing and screaming and cursing the sky as she rocks her dead husband back and forth, trying to comfort him in his journey to the afterlife.

In a daze, Neal can finally peel his eyes away from the scene in front of him, and look to the alley where the noise came from. A small black town-car is sitting idle, and a new burly thug steps out, grabbing Neal by his shoulders and pulling him up, dragging him back to the car. Neal can't look away from Vincent, his lost life, and his hysterical wife.

In the car, Neal is shaking violently, just staring out the window in a daze. To make eye contact with V, sitting across from him, would be to give in. "He was on the wrong side, Neal. He wasn't on our side." Neal flinches when he hears V's calm, even words, and just clears his throat, shrugging his shoulders, trying to control the shaking and the panic bubbling within him as he feels the Girl with Golden Eyes slowly turn Her back on him. "I'll need my gun back now, since you couldn't complete the job. I hope you understand."

Neal glances over at V, then sees the thug in the passenger seat pointing his own gun at Neal's head. He swallows, and carefully lifts a hand in defense, the other handing the gun to V. V smiles, and tucks it in the briefcase, setting it on the floor and swapping it for another briefcase. Neal looks back out the window, numb. He hears the light metallic sounds of whatever V is toying around with in the new briefcase, but he clenches his jaw when he hears the lighter and the scent of vinegar begins to float throughout the car. "This was a very traumatic experience, Neal. You'll be needing something to ease the shaking."

Neal stays where he is for a moment, frozen, then glances over towards V, avoiding meeting his eyes. His captor is holding the tourniquet and the syringe, one in each hand. Neal feels a violent tremor begin to run through his bones. He needs to quiet the withdrawal, which isn't too terrible yet, but more than that, he needs to forget what he saw. He doesn't make eye contact when he reaches for the gear with trembling hands, turning his body to face out the window as he prepares himself in silence. V doesn't speak, he simply studies Neal, a small grin gracing his lips. Neal can hear his captor's heavy breathing, and it's burrowing into his brain like a parasite, with every inhale and exhale, getting louder and louder the longer his preparation goes on. He finally has everything sorted, quickly bringing the needle to skin and sliding it through, sucking at his teeth. The moment is in stasis, it seems to drag on forever, and the breathing is making him agitated. He's sweating and shivering and he still feels miserably sick after what he just saw, but once he makes sure he's found a vein and administers his relief, silence overcomes him, and he immediately sinks deeper into the dark leather seats. A small moan falls from his lips, and he lets his eyes drift shut, the Girl once again dressing him in a coat of warm, heavy gold armor, protecting him from the world.

* * *

"Boss. I need to speak with you privately."

Peter glances up. He had been staring blankly at his desk. He blinks into focus. "Hm?"

Diana gestures him to the hall. A raise of his eyebrows questions her logic. "It's important."

Peter is growing more skeptical by the second as he follows her down the hall. He keeps clearing his throat in anxiousness. She just shakes her head. Not yet.

She finally leads him to a private office area, one without windows, away from the crowd. He sits, shaking his head as he studies her. "What is so important you had to drag me over here?"

It takes Diana a moment, and she swallows twice before she can even begin. "I'm sorry, boss," she begins to explain, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, and Peter lets his head hang when the realization slams his gut, already knowing what's coming. "Neal's dead, Peter." He doesn't move for a while, so long that Diana is starting to get worried, as she discreetly reaches up to wipe at her eyes. After a time, he nods, head still down. It takes him a minute, but he clears his throat and glances up, clearly trying to hide some emotion.

"How?" he asks, and his voice cracks.

"We got a report of a drive-by shooting last night, Neal and one of Valentino's targets were identified as being seen earlier at the location of the murders by two witnesses." She hesitates. There's more, and she doesn't want to tell Peter.

Peter gets frustrated. There's not much she can say to make this worse at this point, anyway. "What is it, Diana."

"We returned to the Warehouse. We found two separate collections of ashes. Clothes matching descriptions provided by the witnesses of what Neal and the other victim were wearing were piled in the corner. Both had blood, we ran for a match and identified both of them."

Peter blinks, glancing down. No body. Just his suit. He feels sick, searching the floor, then glancing up after a moment. "They're sure it's him?"

Diana inhales deeply before speaking, not wanting to get Peter's hopes up. "They're quite confident. There are no bone fragments so there's no way to be sure. I'll immediately let you know if they find anything else." Peter nods again, then slowly pushes himself up out of the chair, in a daze. She looks him over. "You going home, boss?"

He just nods slowly, still not snapping out of it, and wandering out the door, ignoring everyone looking his way.

The drive home is silent, but his hands are shaking and his mind is running wild. He's not sure what to think about first. Why? Why wasn't he there? Why couldn't he stop this? Is this real? Is this a joke? What now? Where is V? How is Peter going to kill him?

But he can't focus.

The door slams, startling Elizabeth from where she sits at the table. Her eyes immediately pool with concern as she searches her husband's face, who just stands in the doorway, staring blankly at the floor. "Peter? What is it?"

She takes a step forward, cautious, but he suddenly closes the gap, going to her and just wrapping her up in his arms, holding her tight. She gasps softly, returning the hug, and just lets him hold her.

* * *

END.

**A/N: Please let me know what you think! Next update tonight or tomorrow. Not everything is at is seems.**


	4. Heart Failure

**A/N: **Here is chapter 4, my dears! Please, please, let me know what you think on this one. I know Neal didn't have much to say this time around, but this chapter is very important set up for upcoming chapters. Love to all.

Chapter **4**

Elizabeth hasn't moved in what feels like ten minutes, but is probably around thirty seconds. Either way, it has Peter in a mild panic, as he studies her eyes after delivering the horrible news. Elizabeth can feel Peter's hands shaking as he grips her own. She just sits there, unmoving. Just blinking. After ten minutes, or thirty seconds…whichever…she blinks one more time, and a tear rolls down her cheek. She glances up at Peter. "They're sure?"

He leans back lightly against the couch, exhaling sharply, then nodding as he looks down. This simple act is hard for him because he still can't believe it himself. They turned over every location they had suspected him of being in during the almost 4 months he had been gone, but found nothing. Nothing, except the ashen remains and Neal's suit crumpled in the corner, covered in his own blood, at the very first warehouse they had originally searched when he first went missing.

Peter has the teddy bear on his desk at the Bureau. Neal's anklet is still clasped around its neck.

* * *

"We need to get him inside before we're seen."

"You think I don't know that?"

Neal's eyelids barely crack open before he squeezes them shut again, listening to the men speak. It feels like they're in slow motion. He's not worried. The Girl is all he needs. He's floating in a drug-induced fog. It's his own version of Elysium.

They're carrying him. They're dragging him out of the town-car. He doesn't care. He couldn't walk right now, even if he wanted to. The vision of the scene he had witnessed only a few hours earlier is demanding a stronger dose of his preferred poison just to keep him under control. To control the violent shakes that wrack his whole being. To forget the thoughts, the images in his head, that bring him to his knees, retching miserably as he remembers. To soothe his exhausted muscles, worn sick from constantly cramping and contracting. To let him sleep. Just to let him fucking sleep.

He sighs in relief when it begins to knock him out as he floats in and out of awareness.

Seeing what he saw back there, it's scarred him. After he shook out of the daze in the car, surrounded by the very men who did this to him, he found himself desperately loading up on each provided dose. He's able to wait less and less time between each hit, now. This thought crosses his mind for a moment, just a flash of a second, before it washes away with the wave of the next dose, and he sinks further in the seat. It wasn't long before Neal drifted off into complete unconsciousness, his heart slowing as his head began to nod forward. He quietly mumbled himself to sleep.

When he awakens, curled up on the cold cement of the cellar, the air is stale, his eyes are shrouded in darkness, and he has trouble swallowing. There's bruising all over his ribs, legs, and arms, and every movement aches.

There's a pounding in his skull that reminds him that he's conscious, and he just wants to drown it out. His fingers tangle in his hair as he rocks back and forth to ease the pain searing through his limbs. It's getting bad, really bad, and he would guess he's probably been locked in here just over a day without Her, based on the physical symptoms. Waves of nausea ripple through him and it takes all the physical strength he has to keep himself from audibly moaning in pain.

By the time the second day rolls around, Neal is barely hanging on to the last remaining threads of consciousness, heart pounding in his chest as his muscles all turn on him, wringing and twisting themselves into knots. He's beyond sick, maintaining curled up as much as possible to ease the churning in his stomach. His brain slams against his skull, and he lets his eyes flutter shut when he rests his head back against the wall after being sick again.

Halfway through the third day, Neal is praying for death to come, when the light at the top of the stairs begins to spill in and a silhouette appears in the doorway. Neal barely manages to lift his head enough when he glances up, and his breath comes out in a shaky exhale when he sees who his visitor is.

Karl, the most recently acquired thug, brings him the lock-box. Neal immediately fishes for his key, hands shaking uncontrollably as he unlocks the box and begins preparing his Escape. His obvious desperation turns to shame burning in his heart, but it can't break through his toughened, scarred skin. He just lets it bubble up inside.

Right as he's getting ready to tie the tourniquet, his hands begin to tremor; violently, almost spastically. He keeps trying, but his hand keeps slipping, and he finally drops the tourniquet with a frustrated growl, fisting his fingers around his hair as his whole body shakes. He squeezes his eyes shut, but carefully cracks them open again when he hears keys jingle. Karl is bending down by Neal's shaking figure, reaching for Neal's arm and carefully tying the tourniquet around it. Karl then positions his fingers over the needle, lightly pressing a thumb on the inner bend of Neal's elbow, searching for a point of entry. When Karl finds what he's looking for, he shrugs his shoulders and his sleeves crawl back up his arms slightly. Neal's breath hitches in his throat when he sees them: the small pockmarks, pinpoints from needles that trail Karl's arm. The sharp pinch of his own needle now snaps Neal back to reality, and as soon as the drug enters his veins, he slumps down against the wall slightly, his eyes drifting shut as a soft sigh escapes his lips. "Thanks..." he manages to murmur, his voice slipping away towards the end of the word.

The murky brown liquid turns to gold as soon as it enters his veins. Neal can't help himself; his skin is crawling with delicate tingles that could have been light kisses from an angel, and he carefully pulls his knees up, hugging himself tight as he rests his head against the wall, chin tilting up towards the ceiling, and he sighs in this faux bliss that he's well aware isn't real, but it's all he has. Karl sits back and studies the broken young man for a moment, then glances down as he cleans up the evidence. A small noise catches his attention, and he glances over to see Neal very softly muttering something as he struggles to keep his eyes open. Karl strains to hear it, but catches the important parts. "L've… s'many….sp'ndored thing. S- S'the April rose…. th'only grows… e- early Spring…"

Even in Neal's near-unconscious state he's still able to carry the tune, despite the barely whispering voice and the occasional cracks that break through it.

"Love…s'nature… f'giving, a reason… to… t'be living…"

Karl leans back a bit, tilting his head as he studies the man.

"Hey," Karl offers, searching Neal's face. The younger man keeps his head down. Karl shakes his head. He's not sure what compels him to do it, but he does it: he reaches forward and places his hand on Neal's forehead, tilting his head back to see the kid's eyes. "Hey, kid. You okay?"

Neal's struggling to keep his eyes open, let alone focus on Karl. Everything's crossing together, he's not sure which way is up, but he just can't bring himself to care. He's with Her, and She's all that matters.

Karl snaps his fingers in front of Neal's face, and Neal lightly jolts in reflexive response to the noise, but other than that, doesn't react. Karl leans back, letting his arm drop, and Neal's head falls forward again.

"We gotta get you outta here, kid," Karl mutters, shaking his head, and pushing himself up, swearing when he whirls around to find Valentino standing there, studying his eyes.

"Planning to break him out already? Oh, but it was just starting to get fun," Valentino chides, nodding to the small folded figure in the corner of the room. Karl inhales sharply, maintaining himself and puffing out his chest.

"You've gotten what you need out of him. He's not a threat." He's not sure what compels him to rush to the kid's aid, but he does. It's certainly not that he sees himself in Neal. Perhaps that's just it. He sees none of himself in the broken young man curled in the corner, humming softly to himself as he loses himself in the drug. They're nothing alike, and yet they're in the same situation. This kid has potential, that much he knows. He doesn't want to be responsible for ruining this life, but the emptiness he sees in Neal's eyes whenever he opens them tells Karl it may already be too late.

V nods. "Well. Well, you did get half of that right. He's certainly not a threat, now." V glances past Karl at Neal for a moment, sighing, before focusing his gaze back on Karl. "But I'm not done with him yet."

Karl sighs again, glancing behind him to the young man, studying him as he speaks over his shoulder to Valentino. "He's done enough. And he won't go anywhere. He can't run the way he is now. I've seen kids this far gone before. He's not coming back from this, Boss. Just let him go."

Valentino shrugs, studying the broken young man, still muttering to himself in his peaceful oblivion. "I intend to. Burke's team is closing in on this location, we've got to clear out. I want the whole place emptied and wiped by midnight tonight. We leave then. I want nothing left to trail back to me. This place never existed. We never knew about it." He hesitates, clearly deep in thought as he considers the fate of his pet. "As for Caffrey… I want him under my thumb. But I never want to see him again. I keep him around much longer and he'll blow the whole goddamn thing. I don't need his trail leading right back to me. Get him out of here. You know where to take him."

Karl nods, keeping his eyes down. He just wants to get the kid out of this hell-hole.

* * *

"Boss." Peter snaps out of his daze, glancing up. He had been staring down at his desk. No papers. No files. No books. Just the desk. "Warrant came through for the office building. It's owned by various known 'partners' in Valentino's cover business."

Peter glances over the warrant as he speaks. "Which is…?"

Diana stands up a little straighter. "Pharmaceutical technologies."

Peter nods, straightening his lapel and pushes himself up from the chair, glancing up at her. "Let's get this son of a bitch."

* * *

Neal sleepily blinks into the glass Karl is holding out to him. He attempts to focus, but his vision keeps blurring as he studies the clear liquid. After a few moments of this, just a moment too long, just long enough to start making Karl uncomfortable (there was clearly still a trace of the former Neal Caffrey, somewhere deep inside), he blinks up at the thug. "What is it?"

"Sedative. We're going on a trip."

Neal nods slightly, staring down. So he can't figure out the location of this dark and rancid cellar. "I don't want it. Give me the needle," he murmurs after a time, with a slight bitterness in his voice that wasn't there before. He keeps his head down when he speaks. He needs to hide the shame written all over his face.

Karl shakes his head once. "Absolutely not."

"Why the hell not?"

Karl kneels next to the younger man. "Because last time I gave you the needle to take you out, we had to wait, because you stayed awake for four hours, stumbling around the cellar spouting some mumbled conspiracy theory shit about vulture eyes, and… and murders without motives, and psychotropic drugs making people hear hearts beating under floorboards."

Neal just stares at him for a second. "Karl, that is not conspiracy theory, that is The Tell-Tale Heart. Seriously."

Karl chuckles, then it dies out, and he sighs, holding out the glass again for Neal.

The younger man sighs, studying the glass for a moment, then looking up at Karl, searching the man for reassurance that this is going to be okay. Karl nods once, holding the glass out further, and Neal takes a deep breath, reaching for the glass and slugging it back.

* * *

_"I'm face down on the tracks. The train is coming fast, and it's not derailing. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last, that my heart is failing."_

**-"Heart Failure", Sixx A.M.  
**


	5. Reclusion

When Neal wakes up, he finds himself shivering as the cold wind bites his skin. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and carefully pushes himself up, wincing as his bones ache with the effort. When he realizes where he is, he almost passes out again, just from the pure shock. He's standing on a deck, looking down at the streets of New York from at least 50 dizzying stories up. A tall, wrought-iron fence separates Neal from suicide, but the height still makes his stomach churn. A wave of nausea surges through him, and he staggers inside, looking around. It's a hotel room. No, it's more than that. It's a suite. A penthouse. A grand piano sits in the center of the vast living room, the marble floors reflecting the soft orange light.

The bedroom is ornately decorated with tapestries and art, and there's a folded piece of paper and an envelope on the bed.

Neal scratches at his arm, swearing softly to himself upon realizing that he has no dope, no money, no idea where he is, and no one to call for help. He settles onto the bed, sighing as his aching muscles get some relief, and unfolds the paper with shaking hands, studying it as best he can despite the headache pounding his skull.

_Pet,_

_I hope you enjoy your new accommodations. You'll see that the closet is full. When you find yourself requiring something to eat, please feel free to order room service. It will be taken care of. Of course, your kitchen is stocked as well. Again. Feel free. Your briefcase has everything else you need. Including your first assignment. Further assignments will be brought to you by hotel staff. In addition, you will be provided a monthly allowance. First month is in the briefcase. _

_You are welcome to come and go as you please. Just be safe. I think you know what I mean. _

_And don't even think about running. I'd hate to have to harm such lovely people. _

_Besides. Why would you want to run? You are now free to live in the lap of luxury at every moment, free to come and go as you please, never having to worry about money. It's a much better deal than Burke gave you. And he didn't show up anyway. _

_Oh, and of course, you'll be getting your medicine. As long as you don't mind doing me a few favors when you need your prescription filled. I guess that's really the only catch, then, isn't it? What will it be, Pet? I certainly hope you make the right decision. And if you do..._

_…enjoy._

_Sincerely yours,_

_V._

Neal exhales sharply, studying the page, and he notices a photograph slip from the envelope. The pain in his heart pulses further when he sees the picture. Peter and Elizabeth are standing together in their backyard, embracing each other tightly with faces carved from sorrow.

Neal squeezes his eyes shut as he begins to shake in the violent rage he feels.

The briefcase sitting on the bay window grabs his attention, and he carefully goes to it, hesitating first. He could leave all of this right now. He could run. He could find Peter. He could get out.

But Peter failed him. Peter didn't find him. And as angry as he is about that fact, he still shudders at the thought of V harming the beautiful couple, the only people in his life that have wholly accepted him with open arms.

A deep, shaking breath passes through Neal's lips when he opens the briefcase, staring down at the contents.

His eyes crawl over the various items. A bottle of fine scotch whiskey and a small crystal glass, wrapped in protective silk coverings. Several containers of rigs. Several bags of the beautiful white powder. An envelope of cash. Not much, but enough. A separate envelope, no doubt his 'assignment'.

That's all he finds there.

Oh. And a gun.

Before he can even examine the gun. Before he counts the cash. Before he pours a whiskey. Before he even opens the envelope with the job, he finds himself assembling a rig and preparing the cocktail with trembling hands. He shifts further up the bed, to lean against the pillows, and secures the tourniquet around his arm. He delivers the dose.

The rush comes pouring in. A quiet moan falls from Neal's lips, and he leans his head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. He's free.

Wait. No. No, he's not. He breathes, and sits up, dizzy. His head starts swimming, and he raises a palm to his temple, jaw clenching.

He's still a prisoner. Just the way he was when he was locked in V's cellar.

_What the fuck is he doing? Is he really doing this? He has the opportunity to run. He has the opportunity to con his way out of all of this, right now. But he can't. He's empty. He's thirsty. He just wants to get high and make all of this go away. God, this is insane. How did it get like this? How long has he been this way? He's become a different man. He can't be saved. And he certainly can't go back to Peter like this._

Even though he's no longer being held captive, he's still Her prisoner. And She's never letting him go.

And even as he drifts through the lulling waves of the white powder ocean, he's able to realize this fact: he's with Her, and yet he's completely alone.

Hours drift pass. Neal lays back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his exhausted muscles just melting into the mattress. 1 AM.

His eyes snap open again at 5 AM. Nightmares. Brutal terrors that have Neal itching with anxiety. He exhales shakily, squeezing his eyes shut, and pushes himself up to sit, scrubbing his hands over his face.

When he pulls them away, he notices that they've begun shaking. Not again. Please, God, not again.

The slamming in his gut lets him know the withdrawals are back for him already, and he staggers out of the bed, over to the briefcase. The powder. The rigs. He sits on the patio concrete, barefoot, one knee up as he begins laying out his equipment with shaking hands. A sudden gust of wind sends the bag flying, and he manages to clamber up to grab it before it can tumble over the edge. He gasps as he grips the bag, and pulls himself to his feet, shaking. His eyes gaze down 50 stories as he studies the streets below. A shaking hand reaches forward between the bars of the fence, still clutching the powder. His eyes are hard, and his jaw is clenched tightly as his whole body trembles. He drops the bag.

It takes a moment, but he realizes what he's done, and his eyes widen slightly. He wraps his fingers around the bars, peering down through the fence, frantic as he searches the sky below for the small bag rocketing towards the sidewalk. Fuck.

He slowly wanders inside, staring blankly out, at nothing in particular, holding a palm to his temple. Fuck.

It's over. Done. He gives up. Completely. God, just take him now. Please. He stands there for a moment in the midst of this heroin-induced revelation, then turns, angrily swiping at a vase of white lilies, wincing as the glass shatters upon impact with the caramel-veined marble. He stops again, raking a shaking hand through his hair and gritting his teeth, before doubling over as his stomach flips, tightening and contracting, squirming to get away from an invisible offender. Neal finds himself on his knees, his hands pressed against the marble as he tries to catch his breath.

He can't. Neal lets himself fall to his side, curling up on the cool marble as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to contain the groan fighting to escape him.

The cold marble soothes his heated skin, and relaxes the sweat beginning to chill through him as he shakes.

Suddenly, though, he finds himself shivering. He's freezing. The shaking worsens, furious, and Neal winces as he scrambles up off the floor and over to the bedroom, his hands and bare feet nearly turning blue as he shivers.

He finds his relief in the briefcase. The scotch and the glass. He wraps himself in a blanket and pours a measure with a shivering hand, carefully bringing it to his lips.

Warmth.

He crosses to the bed, climbing on and delicately setting the bottle on the end table, curling up under the blanket and steadily sipping to maintain the warmth.

His eyes flutter shut, and he leans his head back against the pillows, sighing. It's not the white powder, it's not what he needs, so fucking desperately, but it manages to edge at least a tiny bit of the burn, and Neal will take what he can get.

After a few slow measures, he notices his hands steadily begin shaking more and more. He abandons the glass, sipping from the bottle as he crosses the penthouse, the other hand in his trouser pocket. He goes to the window, watching the sun rise over Manhattan.

He knows he's still a prisoner. Trapped, in his own beautiful city.

THE NEXT DAY

If Neal had been awake, he would have immediately heard the knocking at the door. But he's not. He's passed out on the patio, curled up on the concrete, his loosely-curled hand laying inches from the empty bottle of scotch.

Neal has to drag himself up off the cold concrete when the knocking finally gets loud enough to penetrate his alcohol-induced coma. He rakes a shaking hand through his hair after he stands, trying to piece it all together, and he has to swallow sickness as he tries to keep his balance crossing to the door and its pounding- the source of the migraine bubbling up in his skull.

"Yeah," he barely manages to grumble when he cracks open the door. An older man in a finely tailored suit is holding a silver dish with a tray cover.

"For you, sir."

Neal shakes his head, going to close the door. "I didn't order anything-"

The man presses a hand against the door. "For _you,_ sir."

Neal sighs, giving the man _a look_, before he grabs the dish, shutting the door with a mumbled thanks, setting it on the table and pulling up a chair. A deep breath, and he lifts the tray.

_"The only way to feel truly alive is to face your own mortality."_

That's what the card says. In V's neat, tight script.

There's a case file with an East Coast Medical Supply sticker on it. And a smaller letter envelope.

Neal unfolds it, glancing over the letter, picking up the details.

_...Next assignment…_

_…East Coast is their cover..._

_…own a chain of pharmacies..._

_…they owe me some inventory…_

_…if you do me this favor and retrieve it, you'll get what you need…_

Neal squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his temple as he grimaces. His vision is blurring and he can't focus through the slamming headache shaking through his skull.

V wants him to break in and steal rigs. Equipment. In exchange for the drug and the escape it provides, however brief, that he's suddenly found himself so desperate for.

The letter falls from his hand and he delicately picks up the large case file, gingerly, as though he's nervous to find out what's inside. He is.

After a deep breath, he flips it open, scanning over the first page. Blueprints. For East Coast Medical's headquarters, no doubt. Neal doesn't know how to process all of this. His finely-tuned mind would usually be right on developing a plan. He would be taking notice of the easily accessible exits, any flaws in security, and any tough areas to avoid. Neal would begin drawing out a plan to get in, through one of the more regularly-used entrances, under a guise of a delivery man for their pharmaceutical cover business- those are always the ones with fewer details, fewer people actually know what's going on… but he can't. Right now, he just can't. His head is pounding, his skin is damp with sweat, and his muscles keep spasming in white-hot electric shock.

He grits his teeth as his hand curls into a fist on the table, and winces when the knocking begins again.

"_What_," he mumbles, cracking the door open. The man in the suit is there. He's holding another dish.

"For you, sir."

Neal raises an eyebrow, glancing up at Suit. "Seriously?"

The Suit nods his head once.

_Sigh._ Neal grabs the dish, wandering back inside as he lets the door drift shut on its own.

"Thanks," he mutters back, letting the dish clatter to the table, and slumping into a chair beside it as he thinks.

_What the hell does V want from me now?_

After a moment of nervous hesitation, he sighs, reaching over and lifting the tray-cover.

A beautiful arrangement. The tray, adorned with a large lace doily, glimmered. It had recently been polished. Meticulously arranged atop the doily were Neal's tools. His gear. His equipment. His goddamned first-aid kit.

Neal swallows, his eyes wide as he stares at the tray. He glances over his shoulder towards the door for a moment, making sure it's shut. When Neal returns his attention to the tray, he notices the first sign. His shaking hands. His eyes squeeze shut, trying to desperately hang on to some semblance of sanity, but inside, he knows it's long gone.

He reaches for the gear, his hands shaking in time with his rapidly pounding heart.

The Girl is standing behind him. She gently rests Her soft hands on his shoulders.

She whispers to him. _Trust me_, She says. He nods. He trusts Her.

She gently whispers to him as he pushes the needle against the skin, distracting him from the pain.

++++++++++++++

3 WEEKS LATER.

"Boss!"

Peter glances up when he hears his unofficial title, blinking when he senses Diana's urgency as she speed-walks down the hall towards him.

"What is it?" he urges, sitting up a little straighter. She slaps a file on his desk, taking a deep breath.

"Pharmacy robbery."

Peter blinks up at her. "Seriously?" He goes to open the file. "Why the hell do I care? This is NYPD's business."

She maintains herself, crossing her arms. "You're gonna care about it when you see the suspect they picked up on the security cam."

Peter flips a page and swallows, his heart just about stopping as he takes in the blurred, but absolutely identifiable image of Neal Caffrey.

Neal's not dead.

He's alive.

He's right here.

Holding up a pharmacy.

Peter swallows, studying the photograph.

The younger man is standing at the counter, his back to the camera at this angle, but his neck is craned as he glances over his shoulder, as though he's heard his name called. A large box of medical equipment is on the counter, it's clearly a part of whatever deal Neal is organizing.

Peter blinks, then drops the photo, looking up at Diana, searching her eyes. "Do we have a location on this?"

"Jones is pulling it now."

Peter studies the picture. Studies Neal. His partner. His CI. His friend.

Neal looks… wrong. There's something wrong here. Neal's not himself. He's thinner, certainly, but it's more than that. His eyes. They're wide and wild. His posture, it's different. It's not his usual relaxed, but proud stance. He's hunched slightly, as though on his guard. As though he's protecting himself.

Peter blinks out of it when Jones strides into the room. "34 West, corner of 9th."

The boss glances at Diana. "When is this from?"

"Thirty minutes ago."

"_Damnit!_" Peter throws down the file, then grabs his jacket, shrugging it on as he barks his orders. "Diana, round me up some manpower. I need teams located on all major intersections within a mile. Jones, grab the car. Get Westley on the van."

Diana and Jones both nod and get on their assigned tasks. Peter stares out the window, looking down at the traffic below. Praying he'll see Neal.

+++++++++++++

"I need back-up here, we have interference," Neal mutters into his phone, voice shaking in his panic. He's standing flat against a wall, trying to maintain invisible, in the maintenance room of the pharmacy. Thugs, burly men with guns, are storming throughout the building, looking for their target. Neal.

He drops the phone when he's done, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his head back against the wall as he clenches his fists. A sharp exhale and he glances down at his hands, swearing as he catches the steady tremor running through them.

A voice in the hall outside grabs his attention. He holds his breath, peering around the corner, then slamming himself back against the wall as the door in the hall swings open.

It's over. Neal squeezes his eyes shut, his whole body shaking in a panic as he hears the gruff voice and the heavy footsteps as they approach. He hears voices shouting in the distance, but he can't tell what they're saying. They're just getting louder. A siren reels in the distance. He's fucked. It's over.

As soon as he hears the footsteps right in front of the door he's behind, he takes a sharp inward breath, his fists clenching tight as he prepares for death, when the explosion of a gunshot rings through his ears, causing him to jump.

A dull thud, and silence. He holds his breath. Footsteps. More silence.

Then, a sigh.

"Get him out of here." A pause. "Find Neal. This guy was going after someone. I bet he's still here."

Neal's heart slams against his chest as the voice penetrates his eardrums and shakes through his skull. Peter.

Neal's eyes dart back and forth, searching for an exit. Peter can't find him. It puts everyone in danger. He can't.

His eyes zero in on a laundry chute. Typical, maybe. Cliche, definitely. But he doesn't have time. Neal takes a deep shaking breath, glances one more time over his shoulder, and dives in.

**A/N: Hey friends! Sorry it took me so long to update, had a CRAZY week at school. I really hope you all enjoy this chapter, and please let me know if you do. This is setting up for some scenes that are going to be SO much fun to write. See you next time!**


	6. Come Undone

**A/N: Quick note, friends. Looking for someone to beta this one for me, as I'm also currently working doubly hard in school right now. Would much appreciate a friend to go on this journey with me. More than anything, looking for someone who can pick up my little mistakes that I miss, and offer advice on how to go about specific scenes so that perhaps they flow better? Anywho, let me know if you are interested, it would be much appreciated!**

"_How in the hell did we let this happen?_" Peter whispers, his voice sharp and shaking with anger. Diana keeps her head down, and Jones has his arms crossed as he stares at the skyline out the window. Anywhere but Peter's eyes.

"I'm sorry, boss." Diana's soft voice breaks through the silence after a moment. Peter scoffs, glancing down, but a knock at the door pulls his eyes back up.

"Agent Berrigan, I…have those ID's for you." Westley is cautious, he can sense the tension in the room. Diana takes the files, sliding them onto Peter's desk, and thanks him quietly before he goes.

Peter flips through the files. "What are these?" His voice is gruff.

"Good news." He glances up at her. "We were able to positively ID every man we saw during the robbery. We're compiling locations of interest, narrowing down specific groups in the organized crime world, identifying patterns in accomplices…" She shrugs. "The works."

Peter nods slowly at this, flipping through the files further, pursing his lips as he focuses. The moment seems to drag on as his warped, plagued mind, weakened by the recent succession of events, attempts to wrap his head around all of the new information at once. He's been damaged by this. By losing his CI. His friend. Hearing he's been killed. Finding out he's alive.

Seeing him, on that security tape. Seeing how broken he looked.

"Work through this intel, get me something we can work with," he finally mutters, handing the files back to her, keeping his eyes down. She knows not to reply.

* * *

Neal gasps awake. The last remaining tendrils of excruciating pain still slither through his veins, and his brain is slamming against his skull. He feels like he got hit by a train. This is wrong.

A smooth voice echoes around him, and it sounds far away, like he's underwater. "Glad to see you've decided to join us again, Pet."

His brain feels partially melted, and as he struggles against his aching muscles to sit up, he can feel it sloshing around in his skull. The sharp, shallow breaths that speed past his lips scream protest against the white-hot shock searing through him. Before he jolted awake, this high had been one of the better ones. He had been steadily nodding in and out of consciousness, dangling between dream and reality as the waves of ecstasy rushed through him like a gallon of warm water had just been poured down his throat. It was more than just a physical pleasure, the high transcends far beyond physical barriers. He feels this warmth in his _heart_, in his very _soul_. A piece that was missing, a piece that no amount of money or valued masterpiece could ever replace, was suddenly right here, in his hands.

This was an improvement. He usually didn't stay high longer than a few minutes anymore. After that, he would just crash, or even out.

This time, though. This time, it was different. It was probably the closest he had ever been to that very first time the needle broke his skin and delivered the dose that banished all his fear and worry, that bathed him in soothing, healing touches, that now so often coaxed a gentle moan from his lips as it first found its entry.

The oozing warmth that melted and relaxed his cramping muscles as it pulsed through him. The waves of pleasure that ran over his whole body and left him trembling. The light, tingling electric shock he felt whenever something brushed against his skin.

It could have only been a few minutes, but it had felt like years to Neal. The most perfect moment, suspended in time forever. And then everything went black.

And then he woke up.

Neal squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again, drinking it all in. V's standing above him, staring out at the skyline, hands clasped behind his back. His doctor friend is looming over Neal, studying him, inspecting him. Something is wrong. The withdrawals didn't usually come this quickly. The moment he was ripped from his stoned otherworld, his body was plagued with the full force of the withdrawals. Slamming his gut, bubbling up into an itching sensation across his skin that couldn't be satisfied, even as his nails broke his flesh, releasing blood from the surface of the wounds. The doctor reaches for Neal's arm. Neal winces, and hunches over, closing in. "Don't touch me," he mutters, still shaking and swallowing sickness.

The doctor leans back. V still doesn't look down at Neal when he speaks. "You almost killed yourself. You don't get to call the shots anymore."

Neal squeezes his eyes shut, nearly spitting his words as his entire body tenses. "What are you talking about?"

V rocks on his heels, sighing. He sounds bored when he speaks. "You were stupid and overdosed. My Doctor has injected you with naloxone. It is an opioid antagonist, it essentially works by invading your brain and-" He pauses here, taking his time to search for the perfect word as Neal shakes miserably on the concrete. "-_displacing _the opiate refugees that have taken up residence in the opioid receptor sites of that _pretty_ little skull of yours." He smiles, quite proud of himself, and Neal slumps a little lower against the wall.

The doctor clears his throat. "You'll be experiencing withdrawal symptoms because the heroin was quickly forced out of your brain, as opposed to slowly making its way out, as it usually would." Neal grimaces at this, clenching his fists and squeezing his eyes shut again as he lets his head drop forward.

"I overdosed?" Neal finally manages to mutter through clenched teeth, eyes still cast down. V scoffs.

"And how. We found you in here, spasming. Like a doll." He tilts his head to the side when he says this, as though imagining Neal as a limp rag-doll in his head. "Your lips were blue." He pauses. "It was worrisome." He doesn't sound worried.

A sudden chill assaults Neal, and he jolts in response to the sudden change in his body temperature, nodding quickly as he stares at the ground. This is wrong. This is not Neal. This is not who he is.

How did he get this far? The man he was, the man he used to be, before V began slowly killing him… the man who had never in his life touched a substance other than a nice, fine, wine… he's gone. That man is dead.

His death and rebirth have left him hopeless. Fiercely addicted, desperate, and so fucking hopeless.

Neal's head stays down. A few small tears begin to crawl down his features as the crippling disgust with himself becomes overwhelming. He wants to stop this. So desperately. He's dying inside, more and more every day; he can feel it. He can feel his strength, the will to keep fighting, slipping away, along with his sanity.

And now he's almost lost his life. Because of an overdose he had administered himself.

This should be a wake-up call. This should rocket Neal into action, to find a way out. So he can stop. But he can't. He knows he can't. Maybe, a few months back, he would have still had some fight left, but Neal has resigned all hope.

All he wants is his fix, all of it: the ritual- preparing the cocktail, loading it up, tying off, sliding the needle under the skin. Watching his God-given life force mix together with his new active ingredient as he pulls the plunger out, and watching the two collaborate as he administers the dose.

The overwhelming flood of good feelings that drowns the pain and helps him forget.

It's all he can think about. That, and Peter. He heard him, he knows he did. Peter was only a few feet away from him, right before he dove into that laundry chute. He couldn't let Peter find him.

The sick part is, he knows it's not because he's done something criminal and he doesn't want to be caught. It's not even because it could put Peter in harm's way. It's because he can feel them- the withdrawals, creeping into his bones, weakening him all over. Making him shake, making him sick. If Peter had caught him, he wouldn't be able to quiet the pain.

He needs this.

V is chuckling about some untold joke, and Neal quickly wipes at his watering eyes, coughing once and clearing his throat before he raises his head slightly, still looking out with that vacant stare. "Something funny?"

V's chuckle dies out. "Oh, nothing. It's just… Never, in a million years, did I think you would fall this far, this fast. I misjudged you." He sighs, looking down at his hostage. Studying him, like an experiment. Like his plaything. He shakes his head, his voice dripping with disgust. "You're so much weaker than I thought."

Neal quickly casts his eyes down, the shame beginning to rage through him. He shakes in his fury, tightly wrapping his arms around himself and drawing his knees up. "You don't know me," he spits. "This isn't who I am, you did this to me."

V scoffs. "That's rich." He kneels down next to the trembling figure. Neal turns his head away, not wanting to give V the satisfaction. His captor's smooth voice is tainted with poison, as he whispers into Neal's ear, his hot breath making Neal wince. "You may not have always been this way, but you know _exactly_ what you are now. The sooner you stop denying it and admit that to yourself, the sooner we can move forward."

Neal presses his lips together, his lips twisting into a frown. Absolutely not. He won't say it.

"I'm trying to help you, Pet."

His eyes squeeze shut. He can't stop the furious shaking.

"Just say the words. And we can move on from this."

No way. No way in _hell_ will he give V that satisfaction. Neal knows who he is. He knows, deep inside, it's not this. This… _affliction_, is not who he is. He swallows the nausea rising up from his stomach, and shakes his head slowly, keeping his eyes down.

V raises his eyebrows, studying Neal. After a moment, he sighs, pushing himself up and clasping his hands together. "Fine. It's not my problem." He considers. "Not a good idea to dose so soon after naloxone anyway. I'll let you recover. Let me know…" He shrugs. "Once you've reconsidered your position."

Neal just sniffs once in response to his runny nose, the pressure building up between his eyes as his sinuses turn on him. He shuts his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, listening to the men walk away.

The shaking doesn't stop.

* * *

SAME TIME. THE BUREAU.

"We found a mutual location of interest linked to all the men present the day of the robbery, boss."

Peter glances up at this. Best news he's heard all day. "Give it to me.

"It's an old poker hall. Supposedly abandoned, but we've had speculation someone has still been pulling out the chips every few weeks."

"How is it connected to the thugs?"

"The men who run the games, they're associated with the Ruelos family."

Peter scoffs. "More drugs. Great." Diana hesitates, and Peter glances up, frowning. "What?"

"We…" She sighs, and lowers her voice. "We think V is using Neal to get to Ruelos."

Peter pauses at this, taking it in, then nods, looking down. "What have they got on him?"

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. We don't know yet." A brief pause. "We have agents on their way to the hall now."

He nods. Diana immediately notes that his voice is much quieter. "Good. Let me know what you find."

* * *

THREE HOURS LATER. THE PENTHOUSE.

The naloxone has left his system, but the withdrawals still eat at him with a desperate urgency. Neal is tucked in the corner of the shower, his head buried against his knees, tremors running through his entire body. The water that pounds down on his freezing figure is white hot, in a pathetic, last-resort attempt at curbing at least a tiny bit of the pain. He groans, gritting his teeth, and with great effort, raises his head to let it rest against the tiled wall.

He's not an addict. He's a prisoner. Desperate to get out.

At least, that's what he keeps telling himself.

But when another three hours or so passes, and Neal finds himself first pacing every square inch of the penthouse as he shakes violently and his fists clench and unclench, then stationed by the toilet, alternating between wiping at his nose with toilet paper and emptying his stomach, he begins to realize he's running out of options.

Now, he's huddled in the corner of the bedroom, head back against the wall and grimacing, fighting. He knows what he has to do.

"Yes, sir."

Neal is barely coherent as he tries to keep his words from slipping together and contain the groan fighting to escape him. "Lemme talk to him, I know…I know you can connect me to him…" he manages to slur into the hotel phone, his breathing ragged and labored.

"Yes, sir."

Neal lets the phone slip from his fingers, and lays back on the carpet, gritting his teeth as he curls up tight to try to ease the pain.

The door creaks open. He doesn't have the strength to lift his head. Footsteps.

"You rang?" Even through the deafening ringing in his ears, Neal can identify the voice. He's still curled up on the carpet, shaking violently, face pressed to the floor. He tries to speak, but can only provide a few mumbling sounds, muffled against the carpet. He's slipping out of consciousness. He needs what V has for him. "Oh, my. You don't look well, Pet."

"Do it," Neal finally manages to slur, fighting to stifle the groan building inside of him.

V crouches next to Neal, roughly grabbing his collar and pulling him up to sit, shoving him against the wall. "What was that?"

Neal grimaces as his body slams against the wall. He clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. "Hit me," he groans.

"You know the deal."

"_Do it_."

V laughs. "Why should I?"

He knows what he needs to do. He manages to lift his head enough for V to hear him, and when he finally musters up the courage to speak the words, he can feel his heart crack in two. "Because…" He hesitates, then ducks his head down again. He can't look at the other man's eyes. His voice is weakened with the shame raging inside of him. "Because I need it." He winces as a jolt of pain shoots through him, and clears his throat. "Because I'm addicted."

V raises his eyebrows, frowning with false concern. "Oh, I am _so sorry_ to hear that. Unfortunate, really." He smirks, and pulls the tin case from his breast pocket, shoving it into Neal's shaking hands. Neal lets his head drop back against the wall in his relief, his breaths coming out in sharp, exhausted gasps. He struggles to open the tin, but he can't even steady his hands enough to release the clasp. Frustration builds. He's so close to killing the pain.

His voice is slurred, ragged, and tinged with shame. "Can…" He hesitates. "Can you..."

V tilts his head. "Hm?"

Neal lets the tin slip from his trembling fingers and clatter to the floor, and scrubs his hands over his face. "I can't…I…" He's slowly slouching lower and lower, the pain from the absence of the drug causing his limbs to fail him. He's just about to collapse to the floor, when V pushes him back up again, supporting him.

"Hm. Dope-sickness. Also unfortunate."

He carefully extracts the gear from the tin, and with deft and experienced motions that remind Neal of lock-picking technique, he prepares the cocktail. His touch against Neal's skin is surprisingly gentle, soothing, and Neal just lets his head drop back. He can't watch.

V skillfully slides the needle in, finding his point of entry on the first try, and administers the dose to the broken young man.

Neal's breathing immediately slows from the near-hyperventilating gasps, to relaxed, smooth inhales and exhales. His heart finally begins to calm down, and he loses himself in the waves as they wash over him.

His captor fixes his tie as he stands. "How are you feeling now, Pet?"

He's so stoned. He can barely keep his eyes open. His fingers gently trail over his skin, the action producing a light, tingling sensation. He's warm. He's nodding off.

All he can provide in response as he gets lost in the drug is a quiet, gentle moan.

V smiles.

**A/N: Thank you so much for your patience, friends, and for reading. This chapter is very whump-filled, but of course, after a storm, comes a rainbow. The storm just sometimes rages on for a while first. :D See you soon!**


	7. Dead Already

CHAPTER 7

"Show me what you've got."

Diana hesitates. "It's not good news, boss."

Peter waves a hand. It never is. He just needs something, anything. Just to let him know that Neal is still alive.

It's a security cam photo, and Neal, in yet another display of out of character behavior, appears to be completely oblivious to its presence. He's dodging across the street in what is surely a jay-walking zone, and he's holding a large manila envelope close to his side. Protecting it.

But clearly not protecting himself. The man is worn. Weak. Even in the still photograph, Peter can almost _feel_ the stiffness in Neal's bones.

"Where…did this come from?" Peter asks, still distracted by the nagging sense that something is very wrong with Neal.

"I've been monitoring traffic cams within a mile of the gambling hall. This came in about ten minutes ago."

Peter glances up. "Does anyone else know about this?"

"No, not yet. I can gather a team to pursue-"

"No, no. If he's being used by Valentino, he's being used for criminal activity. We don't know what kind of activity that is. This…" He hesitates. He knows he shouldn't be doing this. "Let's keep this off record, for now. Until we have a better idea of what Neal's involved in at this point."

"You sure, boss?"

Peter takes one more moment, just to contemplate this, then nods, glancing back down at the photograph. "I'm sure. I'm going after him."

"Not by yourself." Surely he won't brave this alone.

Peter studies the photo for just a moment longer. "Yes. Don't follow me." He looks up at her. "That's an order."

++++++++WC+++++++++

"Is it done?"

"It will be. Coming up to the location now."

"Good. Keep me updated."

"Got it."

Neal slips the phone back into his breast pocket, glancing behind to make sure he's still got a clean trail. This needs to go through without a hitch. There isn't another choice. _The envelope goes to a man called Lucky._ This kind of minimalist instruction is standard: the less your Pawn knows about The Game, the better. The only issue here, the detail V has overlooked, is that Neal is a master of The Game. Leaving out petty details means nothing to a man like Neal, even through his addiction-addled brain, but his logic is currently built on a frame of despondency and despair; the burden of his knowledge further dampens his broken spirit. He knows how this ends, if a mistake is made. Neal doesn't survive it. There's enough talk going around about Lucky that Neal knows damn well the man doesn't take no for an answer, and won't hesitate to press a barrel to Neal's temple and pull the trigger. A fate Neal would gladly accept with open arms, at this point.

For V, the standard punishment for trivial mistakes such as, say, nodding off and passing out _en route_ to a job, is denial, and subsequently, withdrawal. Forty-eight hours in Hell. Neal shouldn't be alive, but he is, and he needs to complete this job so he can get his relief.

That's the deal. Those are the rules. Simple, really: submission resulted in a reward, dissent of any kind meant immediate punishment, and after weeks and months of this, it's becoming very apparent that now is not the time to play the hero. He just needs to survive this.

The house. He knocks.

"Neal!" The voice coming from behind him penetrates his eardrums and sends a chill through his bones. Peter.

Suddenly, everything's happening at once. The door swings open to a gruff-looking Japanese-American man, his lips turned down into a frown. Lucky. He goes from mildly disgruntled to a full-blown rage as he sees the Federal Agent charging towards him, gun drawn. "What the _fuck_, man, what are you doing bringing Feds here?"

Neal's heart is pounding. He has half a second to make a decision.

"_Neal!_" Peter's reprimanding voice rings through him. He's in trouble. He can see Lucky reaching for something from behind his jacket, and he doesn't want to find out what it is.

He bolts.

Lucky slams the door shut when Neal runs, and Peter immediately speeds after the younger man, obviously more focused on reconnecting with his friend, than taking Lucky into custody. "_Damn it_, Neal!"

He chases after him with a fierceness he didn't know he possessed. In all his time at the FBI, he's never been so determined to catch his target. Neal.

They turn a corner, Neal not even bothering to glance back to see how close Peter is. He just runs for what he's sure is his life.

Peter pushes forward, overcome with a surge of energy as he takes in Neal's obviously deteriorated condition.

The young man is weak, noticeably so, and can't escape Peter's updated endurance training. Peter finally catches his arm, whirling him around, gathering both of Neal's wrists behind his back and shoving him, hard, against the wall. Neal isn't going anywhere. Not now. Not now that Peter has him.

Neal winces when his body slams into the wall, craning his neck back to avoid his teeth colliding into the brick. "Get _off!_"

"Why did you run?!" Peter ignores him completely when he shouts, as the younger man struggles against his strength.

Neal growls through his teeth. "I didn't have a choice, Peter!"

Peter doesn't yet understand the depth of the emotional, psychological, and physical damage Neal is suffering, but he will. Peter lets him go with a frustrated growl, throwing his hands up in the air and turning around, hands settling on his hips as he tries to gather himself. He can hear the shaky breaths Neal draws, with considerable effort.

He sighs, and turns back, looking Neal over. His friend is shaking: violently, almost spastically, and he can't stay still. He's nervous. Twitchy. He keeps his head down, his longer hair covering his eyes. Peter desperately wants to see them. That way he'll really know Neal is still alive.

A sharp inhale, a soft swear under his breath, and Peter glances up, crossing his arms. "We thought we'd lost you, Neal."

His friend finally glances up at this, and Peter is momentarily rendered speechless as he searches Neal's eyes. They don't shine with their usual brightness, they're dull. Red rimmed and watery, as though always on the verge of tears. And tired. So tired. His features are fighting a grimace. Peter looks down for a moment, he can't keep looking at Neal as he obviously suffers. Why is Neal in pain? What did they do to him?

"Neal…" Peter carefully reaches for his friend, to comfort him, but Neal recoils, lowering his head again. Peter drops his arm. "Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" His voice is quiet and shaking, cracking occasionally. Peter's never known Neal's voice to crack.

"Tell me what happened to you."

Neal keeps his eyes to the ground. He's clearly trying to maintain a low profile. Peter wonders what's got Neal so spooked. "I'm fine. Let me go."

Peter just scoffs. After Neal was taken, held hostage for almost half a year, and killed (supposedly), only to be brought back to life a few weeks later, he expects Peter to just _let him go_, now that he's found him? "Is that a joke?"

Neal shifts his weight, scratching at his arm. It's been bothering him since last night. His stomach is churning. The cramping in his muscles is becoming unbearable. He needs to get out of here. He needs to kill the pain. A sharp, shaky breath inward. "Peter, you need to trust me. You're not safe here. You need to let me go."

Peter's kidding himself if he thinks Neal is coming back to him like this. Yes, he misses the life Peter has worked so hard to give him, so desperately, but things have changed. Peter is in danger, and if he gets the FBI further involved, Neal will be, too. He'll be forced to get clean, and that terrifies him more than anything else. The agony he'll be subjecting himself to, and worse still, having to deal with the mental scars and face his life and what he's become. He can't do it.

The withdrawals are getting to him. It's starting to go beyond the physical agony, adding in mental anguish to the mix, just for good measure. Neal squeezes his eyes shut, hands clenching into fists. This entire situation is making him tremble with anxiety, and he's not sure how much longer he can stay standing on his own. He leans back against the wall, scrubbing his hands over his face as he craves the needle. Something, anything, to prop him up. To keep him at least somewhat functioning. To keep the pain at bay. To help him forget.

His erratic behavior isn't lost on Peter. The pieces are starting to come together and make sense, and Peter has to consciously work to keep himself from doubling over in sickened sadness as the realization of what they've done to Neal slams his gut. This whole time, he's been trying to figure out what they had on Neal, to get him to comply. He realizes it's not that at all. The question wasn't what they had on Neal. It was what they had Neal on.

Peter studies the younger man for a moment, who just stares at the ground as the shame and disgust eat at him. "Neal?" He glances up, the deep pain in his eyes burrowing into Peter's heart. After a deep breath as he prepares himself, he carefully, slowly reaches forward, holding up one hand to make sure everything is okay with Neal. The younger man keeps his head down, his lips twisting into a frown, eyes gently shut. The last thing he wants is to see the anger and disappointment on Peter's face when he realizes what Neal's done to himself.

Peter takes Neal's arm, gently pushing up the sleeve. God, it's so much worse than he could have imagined. There isn't an inch of clean, unmarred flesh on Neal's arm. It's covered with scars, new and old. Tiny pinpricks that pack a punch in each small wound. Some healing, some infected, all there because Neal is very clearly in way too deep.

Peter doesn't even know how to react for a moment, once he sees them. "Christ, Neal…" He pauses. "Heroin?" Neal barely nods once, eyes cast down. "They did this to you?" And again, his jaw set as the anger courses through him. "Neal…" Peter shakes his head, looking down and letting Neal's arm drop. "I am _so_ sorry, Neal." The broken young man raises his eyebrows slightly, cradling his mangled arm close to his chest. Peter hesitates. "It's…it's bad?"

Neal glances up at this. He can't be angry with Peter right now, he knows that, but the honest truth is the withdrawals are just about killing him, and he doesn't have the patience for stupid questions like that. Of course, it's bad. The once flawless skin that protected his strong, healthy veins is cracked and worn, bleeding and bruised. The map of veins is destroyed, weakened, and collapsed. Neal doesn't know how to handle things anymore. The cool, calm, collectedness in him has fled, only to be replaced by suspicion, self-loathing and doubt. "Yeah. It's bad."

"You hooked?" Obviously. Neal doesn't bother to dignify that with a response. He wouldn't be here if he wasn't. "Neal, we will fix this. He will not get away with this. We will lock him up, and we will get you the help you need-" Peter begins to offer, but Neal crosses his arms, head down as he holds himself tight.

"No."

"What was that?"

"I said no, Peter. You need to go, you're not safe. I'm not letting you go down for this, too."

"I'm not going down for anything, I'm FBI-"

"Yes. Yes, you are, and you're going to get the rest of your friends at the Bureau involved in this, now that you know what I am. You think they'll welcome me back with open arms like this? Forget it, Peter. Just forget about me." He scoffs, lifting his hands in surrender. "I'm dead already, okay?"

Peter blinks at this, then glances down. He thought Neal had died months ago, only to find out it was all a lie. Now, he's here, with the man he's been desperately searching for, to be told to just go. To forget about him. "I won't just leave you here, Neal. Not like this." When he quietly admits this, Neal throws his hands up in withdrawal-induced agitation.

"Fine. But we need to get out of here. You can't be seen with me, they'll kill you in a second."

"You sure about that?"

"They did it last week. A cop stopped me on suspicion of being under the influence."

"Were you?"

"What do you think?" Neal spits, keeping his eyes cast down.

"You tell me." Even though he knows this isn't Neal's fault, something inside of him is angry. Maybe not angry at Neal, but angry at the situation Neal is in. How could he keep this going? Why didn't he ask for help?

"I was stoned out of my mind, Peter, okay?" Peter shoves his hands in his pockets at this, glancing down. He just takes a moment to digest this. Neal Caffrey: Stoned Out of His Mind.

"They killed him?" Neal nods once, clenching his jaw. "Right there?" Neal doesn't respond this time, lifting his head up to search the sky. "Let's talk, then. Somewhere private. Somewhere they won't find you. You have sanctuary?" Neal nods once, his head dropping forward again. He's exhausted, he's in so much pain, and he's sick and tired. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. "Take me there."

+++++++++++WC++++++++++++++

Neal clears his throat as he pushes open the creaking door. Peter coughs as soon as he steps into the space, the rising dust assaulting his lungs. He waves a hand in front of his face to clear the air.

"It's not June's, but it's sanctuary."

"They don't know about this place?"

Neal shakes his head. "They have me in a suite in upper Manhattan. I stay here when I need to get away, but they don't know about it yet. I never stay long."

Peter raises his eyebrows as he looks around. It may have once been a home, but now it's just empty, echoing space, a safe haven for vagrants and drug addicts, like Neal. A place for him to stay without fear of others finding out his secret. To shoot up and crawl within himself in comfortable numbness, without the worries of anyone interfering. And when he couldn't, when V saw fit to punish him by withholding the drug, it became a place for him to suffer the agony ripping through him in solitude. A place where no one would hear his pained cries and moans.

Some days, though… some days he wished someone would hear him. Someone would come to his rescue, show him some small act of kindness, some display of mercy. Someone would pick him up off the floor, stay with him through the withdrawals, and save him from all of this. But no one ever came.

Peter glances around. It's a completely empty studio loft, probably formerly belonging to some artist who once found a morsel of brief fame, only to have it ripped away when the reality of the economy and survival hit him.

Neal is rifling through a jacket on a hanger, suspended by a nail in the wall. Peter studies the young man. His hands shake, his hair and forehead are damp with sweat, and his breathing is sharp and ragged. "Neal…?" Peter begins, cautious. The younger man ignores him, clearing his throat once, twice, three times as the frustration builds. He finally finds what he's looking for, his back-up kit. His emergency supplies. The concept of holding off on using this emergency stash for as long as possible gave Neal the smallest hope, hope that he still had some thread of strength left in him, but these past few days have beaten Neal down, lower than he's ever been. He needs a dose just to prop himself up and face speaking to Peter. He extracts a small tin from the pocket of the jacket, and sinks down the wall to the floor, opening it and preparing the gear with trembling hands. Peter immediately turns away, throwing up his hands. "Christ, Neal, really?"

"It's been a couple days, Peter, give me a break," Neal manages to mutter, clearly having trouble maintaining control over his body. He can't bring himself to care about what Peter thinks of him. 'Care' is a lost idea to Neal, it's faded away almost as quickly as his will to fight. Peter squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the snap of the rubber tourniquet as Neal tightens it around his upper arm. He's clearly set on doing this, right here, right now, whether Peter likes it or not.

"I'm not staying for this. Where's your bathroom?"

"Door on the left." Neal doesn't look up when he speaks, focused on steadying his hands enough to draw the liquid into the syringe through the cotton.

For the first time since all of this began, he can't find a vein. He's looking, tightening the tourniquet, lightly smacking the skin, anything and everything he can do to bring them up to the surface, but it's hopeless. They're all either collapsed, or retreating, terrified of being ripped open yet again by the invasive needle. "Damn it..."

Peter is wandering back into the room when he hears this, wincing when he realizes Neal is still struggling to administer the drug. He can't believe he's seeing this right now. "You okay?"

"I can't find it."

"A vein?"

Neal doesn't respond, just digging around, wincing as he hits it. "Got it."

Peter has to look away. Neal's breathing slows as he pushes the liquid in at approximately 10 units per second, delivering a strong enough dose to quiet the withdrawal and balance him out, force his body to return to some semblance of normalcy; but not enough to get him insanely stoned, as he'd truly prefer to be right now. A soft moan falls from Neal's lips, and he lets his head fall back, gently shutting his eyes.

"Jesus…" he mutters, as he finally gets his relief. It may just be a vulgar expletive, but Peter can't help but wonder if Neal has chosen this particular name to mutter to himself as a subconscious plea, a search for a savior.

Peter crosses his arms, keeping his head down. This is wrong. He feels sick, watching his friend shoot up, crouched in the corner of this abandoned loft.

Neal takes a few minutes to get lost in the initial high, then manages to pull himself up, staggering slightly and exhaling sharply as he rolls down his sleeves. "Better?" Peter asks, his voice dry and tinged with disappointment.

Neal is oblivious, brushing off his trousers and depositing the needle in an empty glass whiskey bottle that sits on the floor in the corner, amongst what looks like dozens of others needles.

Once he's cleaned up, he finds himself just standing there, aimlessly looking out, one hand pressed against his temple.

"Neal," Peter tries again, and Neal glances up. Peter briefly shuts his eyes when he notices that Neal's pupils have nearly disappeared into the pale blue orbs. "Better?"

Neal rakes a hand through his hair, drawing a deep inhale through his nose and releasing it through his lips. "Yeah. Better."

Peter looks down. "Good. Now. Let's talk."


	8. Don't Panic

**A/N: Hi friends. Just finishing up finals week, so I've been insanely busy. Here is part 1 of 2 for tonight. Next chapter will be up within the next few hours, so stay tuned. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! :)**

Chapter 8

"Good. Now. Let's talk."

Neal is sitting against the wall again, one knee up, his left elbow casually slung over it. Peter has to look away after zeroing in on the sickening number of small scars across his arm.

Neal keeps his head down. It's taking everything he has not to break down, plead and beg for Peter to drag him out of this Hell, so he can make a last-resort attempt, with any small chance he has left, to save his own life, before his dying heart fades away completely. But he can't.

He can't do that. V will tear his life apart, piece by piece. And he'll do it by destroying everyone Neal loves. Neal knows he will, because he knows what kind of man V is. The evidence is right here on his arm.

And Neal can't go back to his old life like this. Forever grateful to Peter, for turning his life around, but forever fearful, now. He's never safe, not the way he is now. The life he leads, the people he associates with, the desperate measures he takes to get his fix… he can't subject the people he loves to this life. He won't do that to them.

Perhaps the worst reason of all, though, the one that makes his inside twist, is the fact that if he goes back to his old life, he will no longer have V. As much as he hates him, that man is his only connection to what he so desperately needs. He'll be forced to buy from the street, and therefore will be forced to somehow acquire cash. Lots of it, considering how doped up V so often had him. The habit will be expensive to maintain, but he will do what he has to do to maintain it. All while actively working with Peter and the team to bring down the entire operation.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Peter shrugs. "You. This." Hesitation. It still doesn't feel real. "What they did to you."

Neal finally looks up at this, his eyes boring into Peter's. "They doped me up until I needed it just to survive, and took it away if I didn't do what they asked." His voice is flat. If he lets it waver, the emotion will take over, flood him, and he won't be able to control himself.

Peter has his arms crossed, and his brow is furrowed. His lip twitches in anger as he listens to this. "Did they hurt you?"

Neal sighs, his eyes searching the ceiling. "Yes, Peter."

"They make you hurt other people?"

Neal pauses, and looks down. Peter can barely hear his response. "Yes."

Peter draws a sharp breath in, glancing out the window. He can't look at Neal right now. "You kill anybody?"

Neal's words are sharp. "No." Peter glances back at him. "They wanted me to. But I couldn't. They did it instead."

"Jesus…" Peter murmurs, looking down. He can't look up when he speaks. "You saw it?"

Neal blinks, then pushes himself up with shaky, unsteady movements, rubbing his palms over his trousers. "Yes. I did."

"And the pharmacy robbery?"

Neal nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Assignment."

Peter shakes his head once, turning just to slowly pace the length of the room, and Neal's eyes search the floor. He can feel the tremor beginning the chill through his fingertips, and he squeezes his eyes shut. His body has had a taste and now it wants more.

"Neal?" He thinks he's only been standing like this for a minute, but when he blinks and looks up, Peter's confused and suspicious face tell Neal he may have been grimacing for a bit longer than he thought. "You okay, Neal?" Peter treads carefully.

Neal unclenches the fists he doesn't remember making, and pulls them out of his pockets, stretching out his shaking fingers before crossing his hands behind his head. He paces. "I'm fine. How long do you think you'll be here?"

Peter raises an eyebrow. "You have somewhere you need to be?"

Neal shoots Peter a sharp look. This man doesn't get to question him. Not now, not after what he's been through. Neal has needs, needs he can't satisfy with Peter here. "It's… not safe for you to stay here long." Neal looks down. "I won't let you get hurt because of this." He shrugs. "Because of me."

The frown on Peter's face softens, and he searches the floor, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I failed you when you needed me. I let this happen to you." He shrugs. "Please let me get you out of this."

Silence takes over for a bit too long, and Peter glances up, blinking when he sees Neal's wide eyes, like a deer caught in headlights. Did he say something wrong?

Neal blinks, and shakes his head, looking down. "Please go. You're not safe here."

Peter raises his eyebrows, and then frowns, crossing his arms. It's more concern, than anger. "You don't want help, do you?" He squeezes his eyes shut when he realizes this, bringing two fingers to his temple. "Neal, please. I know, you're scared right now. Terrified. But more than that, I _know_ that you do not want to do this anymore." Neal keeps his head down, his only movement the light tremor that runs through him. Damn it, why won't the kid just listen to him? Peter has to fight the urge to cross the room and grab his partner by the shoulders. Shake him, shout at him. Plead, beg. Beg for him to come home. "You don't want to do this anymore, Neal," Peter asserts, barely lifting a hand to gesture at Neal. Trying to convince him. Put the idea in his head. He's desperate. He doesn't know what else to do.

He glances up when he sees Neal move, and his face falls as he watches the younger man slide down the wall, head down, and his knees pulled against his chest. "Neal."

"Please go, Peter." The words are muffled and quiet, and Peter has to strain to make sure, but it sounds like Neal is crying.

"I'm not going anywhere, Neal."

The younger man looks up, and Peter lets out a sigh of relief when he sees his friend is dry-eyed. Neal's eyes still carry that dull darkness, though; that broken, glazed-over look that he has possessed ever since this whole damn thing began. "You need to go, Peter."

A moment passes, where neither of them move. The silence is so thick, it almost seemed they had stopped breathing. Neal looks up as he sees Peter shift, and just watches his boss slowly walk over and sit down against the wall, next to him. He draws his own knees up, throwing his arms over them, and studies Neal. Studies the way the younger man softly shakes, studies the way Neal keeps threading his fingers together and tucking them between his knees, in feeble attempts to steady them, or at least make it less obvious. The way his teeth slightly chatter, the way his pupils have disappeared into his broken eyes. The way he so purposefully avoids Peter's gaze.

"I won't leave you, Neal."

That was when the shots began to fire.

TBC...


	9. Lost Sailor

**A/N: Hey all. Part two for the night, here ya go! This stuff is INTENSE, I know, I just got all these plot bunnies under my bed. Stay tuned, school's almost out! Enjoy. :)**

Chapter 9

They both ducked at the noise, Neal scrambling to his feet and flattening himself against the wall, and Peter jumping up and drawing his gun, calling out. "FBI! Come out where I can see you with your hands in the air!"

No response. Silence. Except for Neal's heavy breathing. He was fairly certain Peter could also hear his heart slamming against his chest. More gunshots. "_Neal_. Get _down_."

Neal drops to the ground upon hearing the ferocity in Peter's voice, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. But suddenly he's sitting up again. Rough hands grip his collar and yank him to his feet. A fist slams into his gut, and his vision crosses as he lurches forward, head swimming. It only takes a second punch to knock him out completely, in his weakened state. The last thing he hears is Peter shouting his name.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal opens his sensitive eyes slowly, wincing as the blinding light assaults him. He holds up a shaking hand to cover the glare, and blinks twice, taking in his surroundings. The car. The car that always smelled of whiskey, gunpowder, sex, and cooked drugs. Neal squeezes his eyes shut and bends forward, clutching his aching ribs. A shaking hand delicately lifts his shirt, and he winces at the bright redness, threatening to soon form into a bruise. A light touch sends miserable aches coursing through his chest, and he groans, letting his head fall back against the headrest.

"Hold still, Mr. Caffrey." Neal blinks as he recognizes the voice, and glances over at the man in the seat next to him, coming closer, gripping a tourniquet and a needle. Karl.

Neal's head swims, and he can barely move. He softly groans in protest, but other than that, remains limp as Karl tightens the tourniquet around his arm and pierces the skin, sending in the rush that will set Neal free.

Neal's gripped fists immediately relax, and he sinks a bit in the seat, his eyes drifting shut. After a few deep breaths, Neal falls to the side, the door catching his fall. His head falls back against the headrest.

Very faint colors dance behind his eyes, and he opens them to get a better look. He can't see anything. His vision is crossing, he's seeing spots. It's tunneling, closing in…

He gives in to the beckoning call of sleep.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Diana, I need backup _now!_ Neal has been taken by V's guys. I'm outside now, coordinates have been sent to you. Two men, one 6'3", 210 pounds, white, blonde, brown eyes, stocky build. The other 5'11", 170 pounds, white, brown hair, brown eyes, medium build. Black Lincoln Towncar, no plates. Headed East."

"Got it, boss."

"Pursuing on foot. Get here as fast as you can."

"On it."

Peter ran faster than he knew he could run. He skidded as he turned a corner, and swore as the Towncar sped ahead. He threw up his hands and whirled around, swearing again as he held a hand to his temple. Sirens reeled in the distance. He smiled.

Diana screeched to a stop in front of him a moment later, calling out the window. "Get in!"

Peter did so.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

3 HOURS LATER

They found the car abandoned in a ditch. Engulfed in flames.

The found Neal laying some 40 feet away, haphazardly propped up against a tree stump, barely conscious, with a piece of paper tucked into his shirt pocket. Peter plucks it out and analyzes it with shaking hands.

_Fine. Take him back. He's little more than a waste of space now, anyway. As long as you leave my family and business alone. I'm sure we can come to an agreement. I could talk to your lovely wife about it. I'm sure she'd be understanding._

_-V_

Diana just looked on in confusion as Peter casually climbed into the car, locked the doors, rolled up the windows, and spat, rather loudly, several choice swear words in colorful succession. Diana immediately studied the ground, giving him privacy. She busied herself with grabbing Neal under his arms and lifting him, dragging him towards the car, whispering to him the whole way.

"How are you, Neal?"

"Mmmhh."

"It's good to see you. We missed you at the office. Much less interesting without you."

A soft noise, something between a grunt and a chuckle, falls from Neal's lips, and Diana smiles softly. "D'na."

She glances down as she hears his slurred attempt at her name. "Yeah, Neal."

"Please help me."

She almost stops when she hears his barely murmured words, but quickly shakes out of it, and continues helping him to the car. She nearly has to toss him in, he's so stoned. He immediately leans his head back against the headrest, squeezing his eyes shut and taking sharp, ragged breaths. Diana sighs as she studies him. She sees his hands shake, and places her own steady hands over them. "I will."

She looks up after getting him settled in, and climbs in next to Peter, turning around and studying Neal in the backseat. The young man is hunched forward, his knees propped up on his elbows, head in his hands. She can hear him strain to keep his breathing steady. Peter looks over at her, and nods once. She reaches to the back of the car, wrapping her fingers around one of Neal's shaking fists. He doesn't look up, but his fingers unclench, and rearrange themselves around hers, gripping her hand. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to control her emotions as she feels the violent tremors shake through his hand and into hers. She barely hears it, but knows, without a doubt, that he says it again. "Help me." She glances up to see if Peter heard Neal's near-silent plea. He shows no sign of having heard anything.

She swallows, and looks back to Neal, squeezing his hand a little tighter. _I will_.

Neal gently squeezes her hand back. _Thank you_.

Diana holds his hand until he wakes up. She doesn't leave his side. Peter watches on, occasionally taking a moment to stare out the window or angrily pace in the hall. Neal is propped up against the wall, barely sitting up, and Diana is sitting on the floor next to him, still gripping his hand.

Peter glances at his watch. "Diana, it's been four hours. Don't worry about Neal, I'll take care of him. You need to get home."

Diana doesn't speak, she simply shakes her head, keeping her eyes fixed on Neal. Peter sighs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his hands behind his head.

They stay there all night.


	10. Great Collapse

**A/N: *hides* Please don't kill me. It's been forever, I know, I'm sorry. I lost inspiration on this one for a while. I had this chapter written for a while, but it wasn't quite right. I recently made a few chapters and now it is post-worthy, I think. Please enjoy. :)**

CHAPTER 10

"How do we know it's not some sort of angle on V's part?"

"At this point, I don't care why he did it. We'll figure out his intentions, and if they aren't sound, we'll take action. Right now, I'm not going to question it." Hesitation. "We have Neal back, Diana. That's all I care about."

"Just remember this is still an open case. We haven't solved anything yet. We found Neal. That doesn't mean stop working."

The dull, aching silence that follows Diana's words makes her heart sink.

When he eventually does speak, Peter's words are ice. "Who said stop working? I haven't stopped working. Does it look live I've stopped working?"

Diana hesitates, immediately regretting her decision to speak so candidly. "No, Boss."

"That's what I thought."

It's quiet for a moment, as Diana searches for an excuse to give Peter some space.

"I'll… I'm grabbing coffee. Can I get you one?"

Peter shakes his head, still looking down at Neal's motionless figure.

An hour later and Diana still hasn't returned to the conference room. Peter figured she wasn't really getting coffee, she had just finished her third cup in that night alone, and Peter sighs as he stares out the window, just waiting.

Neal shifting awake brings him back to focus. He immediately jumps up, kneeling by his partner and murmuring quiet words of comfort as the young man comes to.

As he stirs, Neal is confused. His brain is slamming against his skull, and he has to quickly press a palm flat against the carpet to steady himself.

"Hey. Easy. You're alright."

As soon as Neal is conscious enough to take in his surroundings and establish where he is, he squeezes his eyes shut, groaning through his teeth. "Peter."

"Yeah, buddy."

"We're at the Bureau."

Peter nods. "We are. Just sit back, take a deep breath-"

"I told you I didn't want to come here. Let me go."

Peter blinks. "What was that?"

Neal pushes himself up, sitting back against the wall and pressing a palm to his temple, drawing in a sharp breath. He can't believe Peter betrayed him like this. "I told you I'm not safe here. Neither are you. Let me go."

"Absolutely not. You were abducted…again, and drugged." He sighs. "We thought you died, Neal. You're in a tough spot, you've been through hell, I KNOW that… but I have to believe we can get you through this. We have the resources to keep you safe, I promise."

"I don't want to be here." The words taste incredibly bitter when they touch his tongue, and he winces at how he sounds. "I'm fine," he tries again, softer this time. Peter is silent for a moment, and Neal eventually glances up at his partner, who is vacantly staring out past Neal's head. Neal looks over his shoulder, paranoid. Is someone there? "Peter?"

"Diana told me what you said outside of the car." Neal blinks, and looks down, as Peter finally focuses in on Neal again. "Neal." He has to look down for a moment, and he draws in a sharp breath. "Neal, look at yourself. Look at what they've done to you. You knew you needed help, so you asked for us to help you. Why are you so resistant to it now?"

He can't do what Peter is asking him to do: Look at himself. Let Peter help him. Stop using. He can't do any of those things. He draws a sharp breath in, eyes searching the ground. He only vaguely remembers his weak and pathetic plea for help as he swam through his stoned otherworld, but it's there. He does remember. "I don't want anyone to get hurt because of me, Peter. I've hurt enough people."

"They hurt you. Let us help. Please."

Neal swallows hard, before looking back up at Peter. Peter has to briefly shut his eyes when he sees the pain in Neal's eyes. The young man with the giant air of confidence has been so broken down by this, Peter almost can't take it. "I tried to stop, I swear I did. You know me better than to think I would just go down without a fight." His voice cracks here, and he winces, shutting his eyes to try to hold back the tears threatening to spill. He won't let himself look weak in front of Peter. Not today. "I don't have any fight left, Peter." Neal finally opens his eyes, and Peter has to look away when he sees the red soreness in them, and the single tear that has escaped and is crawling down his cheek. "I can't."

Peter locks his eyes on Neal, despite the twist he feels in his stomach as he takes in Neal's pain. "The man I know wouldn't give up like this."

Neal quickly squeezes his eyes shut, then glances out the window. "I'm not him."

"So, what then? What were you going to do, if we hadn't found you? Just live like this for the rest of your life; which, most likely wouldn't have been much longer, in the state you're in." Neal winces at this. "It will only get worse. You will lose everything."

"I already have, Peter."

"You haven't lost me. Not yet."

Neal glances up. He's cautious. "Will I?"

All Peter can do in response is sigh. "I don't know. I don't know, Neal."

"But you can't answer that for sure."

Peter draws in a sharp breath before looking back to his partner. "I've never been in this position before."

"Neither have I."

"I know."

They take a moment, pondering this, and Neal pushes himself up, going to stare out the window.

"How long was I out?" he asks, keeping his eyes on the skyline. It's his only thread of hope. There's still beauty in the world.

"It's been awhile. We found you late yesterday afternoon?"

The young man turns back to look at Peter. "What time is it?"

Peter checks his watch. "9:30."

The young man turns to face out the window. "I need… I need to go."

Peter looks down. "So you can use."

Neal doesn't move. "You don't get it, Peter."

"You're right, I don't." He notices the tremor chilling through Neal. "How did they find you?"

Neal shakes his head, glancing back at Peter. "I don't know, but _I need to go_."

"Do you have any on you?" Neal doesn't answer. Peter groans, throwing his hands up. "You do." He sighs. "I can't… I can't let you do it here. But I can't control you outside of this building?"

Neal is quiet. "I'm going to the bathroom."

"Leave that jacket here."

Neal nods once, pushing himself up and making his way to the bathroom. Once he's gone, Peter leaps up and searches the jacket, finding two small vials under the collar, and two syringes between the layers of fabric in the lapel. He sits back and sighs, before glancing in the general direction of the bathroom. He just hopes confiscating the jacket was enough.

It wasn't. As soon as Neal locks himself into a stall, he rips off a shoe with shaking hands, and peels the back of the sole away, finding the little compartment Byron had rigged into the shoe years back. He retrieves the vial. He reaches up to his head, then swears. There was a syringe tucked between the band of his hat, but the hat is out there with Peter.

He pats himself down, trying to remember where he kept a backup. His pants. There's one between the layers of the waistband, towards the center of his back.

He grabs it, pierces the vial, and fills the syringe. Recently, he's been able to skip the preparation of the powder, because V has seen fit to provide him with higher grade product, which happens to come this way. No preparation, no time wasted.

Once he's administered his relief, he sinks to the floor, he legs out, his arms hanging by his sides, and he sighs, letting his head drop back. "Oh…"

His eyes slip shut, then open just a bit again, unfocused. The rush has appeared out of nowhere, crashing over him, and his heart pounds in these first few moments as the drug bombards his system. This part, though uncomfortable, is his favorite. He doesn't have to think about a single goddamn thing, because he's so intently focused on staying alive through the first five minutes, when all he can think about is how it feels like he's being ripped apart from the inside.

That's what he can focus on.

Once that fades, the pulsing waves of euphoria lull him in and out of consciousness, and he lets his head drop forward after about ten minutes, groaning.

Peter waits in the boardroom. He glances at his watch. Ten minutes. He swears under his breath: he knows what Neal has done.


	11. The Man Who Forgot the Sun

"Neal." Peter raps on the stall door with his knuckles a few more times. He knows Neal is in there, and he knows Neal is collapsed to the floor, high, because he can see the outline of the bottom of his figure, legs splayed out and arms hanging limp by his sides.

Peter sighs, and goes to the stall next to him, climbing up onto the toilet and looking over. "Neal."

Neal hardly reacts, other than nodding forward a bit, and mumbling quietly; indistinct sounds of relief. Peter shuts his eyes and draws a sharp breath when he sees the deadness in Neal's glazed-over eyes. "Neal. Come on, Neal."

He reaches over the door and pulls the latch, climbing down and letting the door swing open so he can move inside and pick Neal's dead weight up off the floor to guide him back out to the conference room.

He runs into Diana in the hallway, who doesn't say a word. She just nods once, reaches over and lowers herself beneath Neal's other arm, letting him lean on her shoulder. The two of them drag Neal's useless body back to the safety of the conference room. Once they have him set up, leaned against the wall, Diana pulls up a chair next to him, taking one of Neal's hands in both of her own. "Did he-"

Peter nods where he stands, staring at Neal with arms crossed in front of his chest. "Yes. He did."

She nods, and brushes away the single tear that has escaped the corner of her eye. "Did you tell him what I told you?"

Peter nods again. "He says he doesn't know how to stop. And that he's tried. And that he wants to leave, because he doesn't want us to get hurt."

Neal shifts, and mumbles again, drawing his hand away from Diana's so he can cross them in front of his chest, hands hanging onto shoulders for support, as though he needs to push down to keep himself on the ground. He doesn't want to be high anymore, so he pushes himself down low. Diana leans back, studying him.

Their silence speaks volumes. They aren't here to judge him. They just want to help.

That's when Peter gets the call.

"Peter, it's Jones. I just got a call on my personal cell. V wants to talk to you about Neal."

Peter's heart sinks. Diana looks up, but Neal is stirring out of the initial high. "Jones, did he make any threats, verbally or sub-verbally?"

"Nothing blatantly out there, no language to suggest that. But he called my personal cell."

"We'll track it. If he calls again, keep him on the line for a trace."

"Got it."

"I'm sending an agent to come pick you up and bring you here. I don't want to take any risks."

When they hang up, Neal is back with them. Well, sort of.

"Peter. Hey," Neal says, wearing a lopsided grin.

Peter sighs. "Hey, buddy." His heart sinks when he realizes that Jones is now going to know what's happened to Neal. Or at least, see it.

Neal doesn't reply. He's just staring out the window, his smile is fading. He's coming back to them and he's realized what he's done. "Oh, no…"

He goes silent, scrubbing his hands over his face, keeping his head down.

"Neal? Neal, it's _okay_. It's okay. You're okay," Diana reassures him

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he's quiet again.

"It's gonna be okay," she tries again, but he shakes his head, clenching his jaw and staring up at the ceiling.

"How did I-"

"I don't know. I thought I took it all," Peter cuts in, still not looking at Neal. He hesitates. "They found Jones. He's on his way here with a safe-agent."

Neal looks horrified for a moment, then looks down. "Is he-"

"He's fine."

"Neal nods. "I told you, you're not safe, because of me. You need to let me go."

"We will get V. And we will get him behind bars."

"I want him dead."

"Me, too, but we can't do it that way. We'll get justice, Neal. That's all we need."

"I want blood."

Peter sighs, first looking over Neal's relaxed, stoned figure, then out the window. "Me, too."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Clinton, you're gonna be fine."

Jones scoffs. "You don't need to tell me that. I would have had em' pinned on the ground in a second. I'm just pissed he's making me use my minutes."

A half-hearted laugh falls from Neal's lips, and the team looks towards him, hopeful, urging him to participate further. He's been so silent this whole time, full of shame, despite their tries to convince him everything's okay, and he's still the same wonderful, bright, charming man they've grown to know and love. This isn't his fault, and they want him to know that.

"Neal?" Jones tries, but Neal immediately shakes his head from where he sits against the wall, staring out the window. He can't face Jones right now, not after what V's done. "We have units stationed at my house. We're monitoring my phones. He's not coming anywhere near me." A brief pause, and then a final try. "It's okay."

Neal shakes his head again, looking down at his trembling hands. It's been a few hours, and he's coming down from the high. He's also noticing that nearly the whole team is gathered in the conference room. All here, all disturbed from their lives, because of him.

He needs the drug again.

"I'm going home," he mutters, pushing himself up.

Peter jumps up at this. "And you're out of your mind; sit down."

"Peter-"

"SIDDOWN."

Neal stands his ground, shaking, arms crossed in front of his chest, his sleeves, which would normally be rolled up without a jacket, buttoned at his wrists. He doesn't want anyone seeing the wounds from the needle that cover his forearms.

His voice shakes, but he speaks with conviction. "You can't keep me here. You don't have me on anything."

"I have you on illegal drug use."

"And there will be a complete OPR investigation following my arrest, of YOUR ability as a handler. Under your watch, and even with a tracking anklet… Peter…" He shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is firm, but worn. He's tired. "Under your watch, I was taken. I was beaten, tortured, deprived food and water. I was forced to do things that made me sick, I was forced to do things that could get me locked up for life." He pauses. "And I was repeatedly forcibly injected with, and developed an addiction, to heroin. Under your watch, Peter." His bitter words sting his tongue, but he has to say them, because he has to get out of here. Because he has to use. "So. Do you still want to report me?"

Peter hasn't moved during Neal's words, the only thing that is different is what looks like hate burning in his eyes. "Get out," he mutters, his voice cracking.

"_Gladly_," Neal spits in return, grabbing his jacket and hat, and holding out a hand, expecting something from Peter. Peter sighs, not making eye contact with Neal as he fishes the vials and syringes from his pocket and slaps them into Neal's hand. As Neal walks away, always keeping his cool, Peter calls after him, his voice soft.

"Neal." Neal doesn't turn, but stops where he stands. "You still haven't lost me."

Neal doesn't move for a moment, letting Peter's words sink in. Peter just prays Neal will do the right thing, he'll turn around, go back to Peter, and ask for the help that he so desperately needs. But he doesn't.

He just walks away.

Later that night, when Neal has been gone for a few hours, and everyone has started panicking but no one is saying anything, Peter is on the phone with Elizabeth.

"And you just let him go like that?"

"I had to, El. I'm never going to get anywhere with him the way things are now. He has to want it. He has to need it. I can't change his mind." A brief hesitation as he prepares to acknowledge the thing that makes him sick to his stomach. "And he was right. There would be a full-blown investigation of me. I can't protect him without a badge the way I could with one."

He can hear Elizabeth's heart break over the phone. "Peter, why didn't you tell me any of this. I thought we said no secrets."

It takes him a moment to answer. "Because I didn't want to believe it myself." He sighs. "It's bad, El. It's really bad."

"Then as soon as he wants it, hon, you get him better."

"I will. That's a promise."


	12. Change

CHAPTER 12

Neal sucks at his teeth as he pierces the skin, pushing the needle in and pulling away the pain in one motion. The drug storms his mind, demanding immediate attention and respect. No part of him is allowed to go on living the way it was, once the drug is there. And the drug is always there. If it's not, Neal has hell to pay.

He lets his head drop back, moaning softly as all his memories, thoughts, wounds… all his _pain_ disappears, flushed out by the drug coursing through his system. He. Can't. Stop.

The place he has found is small. A dingy motel room, complete with a bed, and a bathroom. It's all he needs, really. Just a room with a lock, and a toilet, when things get bad, and he's out some money or can't get the drug soon enough. Sometimes, though more and more often, it seems these days, it gets that bad. To the point where he's curled around the toilet, retching miserably as his insides twist and his head spins.

Only cured by his remedy, these effects are just half the reason he can't let Peter take away his relief. The other half is found in his mind, in his memories; the incessant chatter of thought that reminds him all of the awful, horrible things he's seen and done. The voices in his head, that whisper to him that he's useless, worthless, pathetic. An addict who's only goal in life has been reduced to getting that next hit. The voices that would tell him to jump, every time he found himself crossing a bridge. The voices that would tell him to press the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger, every time V put a gun in his hand.

He just needed to drown them out. But no matter how much he took, it was never enough. It dulled the pain a bit, it always did, but it never made the voices go away.

Neal drops the gear to the floor and staggers to the window, sinking down to his knees as he stares out. Freedom. He misses the feeling: strolling the streets of New York, his fedora tilted slightly to one side, a grin on his lips. Winking at the women who give him the up-down as he passes, nodding to the men who admire his confidence. Just being himself was good enough. But now he doesn't know who he is anymore.

When Neal turns around to face inside, and leans back against the wall, panting as the high engulfs him, the first thing he does is re-roll up his sleeve, gently brushing a thumb over the track marks that run over his skin. He wants out. But he can't.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter finds him. Obviously. Who does Neal think he's dealing with, anyway? It doesn't take much for an FBI agent to find Neal, especially when he's so impaired and lost. A rap at the door the next morning, and Neal is yanked from unconsciousness to find a new needle, still dangling from his arm. Fuck. How long has he been out? He plucks the thing from his skin, wincing as he does, and shakes out his hair, stumbling slightly and scratching at the stubble on his jaw as he goes to the door. He barely opens it a crack, clearing his throat of some invisible frog. His voice still sounds rough when he speaks. "Yeah." As the image is taken in, he immediately regrets going to the door at all. Neal deflates, his shoulders sinking softly. "Peter." He shakes his head, going to shut the door, but Peter's palm quickly stops it.

"Hey. I just want to talk." Neal stops, looking down, then nods once, opening the door and slowly heading back to the edge of the bed, sinking down onto it as he scrubs his face with his hands. "Tell me how you're feeling," Peter starts.

The reality is, Neal feels as though his insides have been ripped from his body and splattered across the floor. He feels empty, he feels numb, and the only way he knows how to feel even a little bit good again is right here in this syringe. The point of the needle and the sharp pain as he inserts it have become his only comfort. On several occasions, when he didn't have the drug, he injected himself with saline, just for the feeling of it. He just needed the ritual, the routine. Well, not just. He needed the drug, too.

His habit was beginning to get expensive, more expensive than he could handle in his state. Conning people out of their money, even pocket change, used to be as easy as shaking a hand, flashing a smile, or flipping a card. Now, in his ugly state of mental anguish and emotional deadening, Neal wasn't the kind of person who _could_ charm people out of their money. People didn't look at people like Neal. People avoided him on the street and conversed about him as he passed. The shame tore through him the way the needle tore his skin, over and over. The worst part, was knowing everyone knew. Everyone could tell. He couldn't put on a mask, not anymore. He couldn't. No matter how hard he tried, Neal could not pretend he was the man he used to be.

"I'm fine," finally comes his answer. His head stays down.

Peter sighs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I'm…glad to hear that." He hesitates. "Did you…. are you…" he begins, trailing off as he grabs for the appropriate words to use, the correct way to ask if Neal is high as a kite. Is there a correct way?

Neal finishes for him. "No, I'm not. I haven't. Not recently, anyway."

Peter nods at this, pursing his lips and studying his broken CI. "I'm sorry, that they did this to you." A pause. "I wish you would let me help, get you out of this."

"I don't need help."

"I think you do."

Neal looks up at this, his face pained. "I'm not ready."

He knows it'll be soon. He can't do this much longer and still have a fighting chance of getting out of it alive. He stays in it past that, he'll be gone. A lost cause. Not worth fighting for. Already gone. "Soon?" Peter tries.

_Now_, Neal thinks. "Soon," he says.

Peter takes a sharp breath. He misses his friend. The unfortunate reality is that he always knew he would lose Neal. The assumption was that the kid would end up back behind bars. A worse option was six feet under, after getting in too deep with the wrong people. Peter never thought it would be this.

"I've seen… I've seen some pretty bad stuff out there, Neal. But this… I don't… You're so…"

"I know." The words don't need to be said.

"You've changed."

Neal's heart dulls a bit more, a little more than it was before, a little emptier, a little harder, a little weaker. He's dying inside. He's quiet. "I know."

His head hangs slightly where he stands, and he feels the shaking begin to creep up on him. He swallows his fear, and glances once to the side, nervous. This doesn't get by Peter, who's jaw sets in anger. "You're withdrawing."

Neal keeps his head down, and he nods once. "You should go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I need, I need you to go, please." The words are spoken through clenched teeth, as he stands and begins to pace the room, frustrated.

"I'm not going anywhere, Neal."

"_Peter_." A fist makes contact with a wall, and Neal goes to the hotel safe, punching in the code with trembling fingers. He retrieves his treasure, a folded leather case, and goes to the bathroom with it. Peter follows him.

"I won't leave, Neal."

"I… I didn't have to let you in. Please- just…. please respect my space," he mutters, opening the case and laying his equipment out on the counter, shaking softly as his eyes well up, both from the pain of rejecting his friend, and the withdrawal. He begins to assemble the tools, holding them up and studying them closely with shaking hands, to make sure he doesn't fuck it up.

Peter finally explodes at this. "Neal, you don't have to do this anymore! I can't help you if you won't let me, but I know you want help, I know you need it, and I'm not leaving until you admit that to me!"

Neal just shakes his head, biting at a lip as he continues, sniffling once and praying Peter just thinks he has a runny nose. It doesn't get past Peter, who reaches out and grabs Neal's wrist, stepping closer. The hand causes Neal to jump, and he tries to pull away, the sniffle becoming a true sob as he pulls as hard as he can, in his weakened state. One final big pull, but still nothing, and Peter just leans forward and wraps Neal up in his arms, holding the kid as his breath catches and the tears begin. He just cries, letting the syringe fall from his fingers, and Peter just holds him as the kid feels close to collapse. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"Hey. Hey, bud, it's okay. It's okay, Neal. It's gonna be okay."

"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm so sorry…"

It goes on like this, for a time, and even when Neal's tears subside, the shaking only gets worse. Peter pulls away after a few minutes, holding the kid at arm's length and studying him closely. "Hey. Hey, what's going on?" Neal looks away, trembling and shivering. He won't answer that. It should be obvious, but even if it isn't, the last thing Neal wants to admit is that he really needs that dose he was preparing. It's been about 14 hours since he last dosed, and he's really starting to feel it. He sniffles again, the drug having backed out completely to let his destroyed body fend for itself. Peter gets it. "Dopesick."

Neal doesn't respond, keeping his head down.

Peter steps back a bit, holding his hands up, stumbling over his words. He can't believe he's saying this, but holding Neal for a good five minutes and just feeling all of the kid's fear, trauma, and _pain_ has weakened his judgment. He had no idea, absolutely no idea, there was this much pain in the young man, but it all came pouring out of Neal in those tears, in those sobs, in his voice, in the way Neal had clung onto Peter like his life depended on it. It very well may have. "Okay… okay… I'll… I'll get out of your way." He needs to let the kid have something. Anything, to dull that much pain. It would be inhumane to let him go on the way he was. He'll get him help, they'll wean him off. They'll get him in rehab. But right now, if anyone ever needed drugs to forget, it was Neal.

Neal looks up at this, his breath catching in his throat. "What?"

"I'm… I'll go."

Neal was going to pick up the syringe to put everything away and suffer through it, suffer the pain, the sickness, the memories, but these words catch his attention. He almost doesn't want Peter to leave. If Peter leaves, he'll use. He won't be able to help himself. He doesn't want to, but he knows he'll have to. "You don't have to… go…"

Peter looks over at this, and for a split second, just for a moment, sees a sliver of the old Neal Caffrey in the kid's eyes. But just for a second, only to be immediately replaced by the broken-down eyes of the helpless drug addict in front of him. The new Caffrey.

"I won't, if you don't want me to."

Neal looks down at his equipment, then back up at Peter. "I… I have to do this."

Peter nods once. "I understand."

Neal studies him, untrusting. A wounded animal. "Okay…"

Peter stays. He watches as Neal punctures the skin with the hypodermic needle, and pushes the drug into his body. He watches, with a morbid curiosity that quickly turns to regret and sadness, where Neal sits against the wall, he watches as the kid's head tilts back with a moan. He watches the kid go slack, watches his limbs relax. Watches his eyes roll back. Watches him mumble a few soft, unintelligible words and release another moan in his pleasure. Peter watches Neal Caffrey dope himself up, and then Peter stands, going to the bathroom, shutting the door, and being as quiet as possible as he's sick, with the shame of what he's done, and what he's just let Neal do.


	13. Hero

CHAPTER 13

Several days and nights go by before Neal even notices Peter is gone; when in reality, the man left only a few hours after he watched Neal Caffrey pierce his skin with a hypodermic needle and inject himself with the drug he was now so dependent on. Neal, though… Neal has trouble keeping track of time. What day is it? What time is it? Where am I? Why did I wake up here?

The most simple things became questions.

When, at one point after those few days, Neal woke to find himself lucid, and wasn't trembling to the point of immediately needing to dose, he went to the phone, finger poised over the buttons, only to realize he could no longer remember Peter's number. He threw the thing across the hotel room, before getting high and curling up on the floor by the window, staring at the sky before passing out completely.

Peter was at the office, clicking through rehabilitation programs that they could get the kid into. The more he looked, though, the more he realized they weren't going to be able to do this without alerting the FBI of his situation. They knew Neal had been kidnapped. They knew he had been found. But they didn't know the reason none of the agents had seen him. They were told Peter's CI was at home, recovering from the hostage situation. None of them knew the kid had run out on Peter after some scathing words to continue to use drugs, which he was now severely addicted to. Peter wanted to keep it that way - silent - but it looked like he was going to be unable to get Neal well without alerting _someone_.

So he talked to Hughes.

He told Hughes of the situation; that the habit was forced upon the kid, that it wasn't his choice. That he was desperately sick, that he was in so much trouble, that he was not going to make it out of this alive if they didn't get him help. Hughes needed some convincing, but as Peter rehashed the horrors that Neal had gone through, Hughes agreed to let it slide when they got the kid into treatment, if it meant getting him the help he needed, so he could return to work.

And Peter began to gather his army for the intervention.

"Neal. Neal, get up."

Neal wakes to find a group gathered above him. He scrambles up from the floor, sitting at the edge of the bed, frightened of the group of the people he calls friends, gathered here… seeing him this way...

"What are they doing here."

"They want to help, Neal."

"This is an intervention."

"Neal-"

"I don't want it. Get out."

Peter sighs. "We're here to help, Neal. We just want to help. How are you feeling?"

Neal studies Peter for a moment, a wounded animal, frightened of contact from those closest to him. He stares with a skepticism, a fear Peter has never seen before. "I'm… I'm fine."

Peter shrugs, raising his eyebrows. He's tired of fighting the kid. "You're right. This is an intervention. We've found a way to help you, Neal, but we're not leaving until you accept our help."

Neal is quiet. "So this is really happening, huh?" he murmurs after a time of silence, the quietness roaring in his ears.

Peter nods, crossing his arms in front of his chest, his voice devoid of emotion. He has used it all up. "Yeah. This is happening."

"You're not giving me a choice." He keeps his head down. He won't look up, won't make eye contact with Peter, or Diana, who keeps her eyes on the ground, or Jones, who stares straight at Neal with compassion in his eyes, but which Neal takes as pity. He won't even look at Elizabeth, who keeps her eyes to the ceiling as the tears stream down her face.

Peter sighs. "No. We're not. You can't do this anymore, Neal. I'm not letting it happen. Not as long as you're my friend."

Neal nods, and looks away. "What if I don't want your help."

"Then you can forget about us. You still have a chance to fix this. But if you don't take this opportunity… we're gone. We're not coming back."

Elizabeth hitches a soft sob at this, immediately covering her mouth and looking away. Her first time seeing Neal, since all of this began, and the sight of Neal, drugged up on the ground, covered in scars left by syringes and scars left by V… she couldn't handle it. Moreover, she could not handle the idea that if Neal didn't take this opportunity to save himself, she'd never see him again. Except for maybe on a Most Wanted website or on the news, behind bars.

"Please, Neal," she speaks quietly, her voice pitched a little higher than normal in her panic and fear. He looks away. He can't look her in the eyes.

He's shaking. He's trembling violently, and he's about to be sick. He's closest to the bathroom, and suddenly, he runs for it, scrambling to get there before anyone can get there first. He quickly pulls the latch and sinks back against the floor, burying his face in his hands as he hears Peter pounding on the thing, screaming.

Neal's scratching. All over, he can't stop, and he reaches up at the top base of the toilet, lifting the base cover and grabbing for the plastic bag that's taped to the side of the base, the area that stays dry. Inside: his tools. He lays them out with shaking hands. If they're going to take him, if they're going to lock him up and take away the drugs, he's not going down without one last ride. No way.

He presses the needle against his skin, sliding it under, wincing as he does. Peter is still pounding on the door and yelling for him to stop being an idiot, get himself together, and _Christ,_ Neal, how can he do this to himself? The words, the angry words burrow into Neal's soul, and he needs to drown them out. He pushes the plunger and pulls away the tourniquet, his breath coming out in a soft whoosh as he leans back against the wall. It only takes a few minutes of silence, a soft moan, and a door kicked in for Peter to get to Neal, but it's too late. Neal's stoned. Again.

He finds the kid against the wall, with his knees up and arms wrapped around them, quietly mumbling as his eyes settle somewhere between focused and closed, and his head nods forward, too heavy to be contained. Elizabeth leaves the hotel room, opting to sit outside against the wall and cry. Diana goes after her.

Even Peter can't help it. As he tries to lift the kid up, straighten him out, and get him to respond, a few tears slide down his cheeks. Neal keeps going on like this...Peter knows it's only a matter of time, maybe even weeks, before he's at the kid's funeral.

Once Neal is a bit more lucid, though, and he's able to sit up a bit, now that the initial rush has worn off and he's just relaxed and slurred, and his head is still a bit heavy… he's able to speak. "Do it," he barely mumbles.

Peter glances up at hearing Neal's voice. "Do what."

"I want help."

Peter blinks, and he can't contain the small grin that spreads over his lips. "You sure?"

Neal nods, once, to avoid it running away from him. He leans his head back against the wall, eyes shut, and barely whispers. "I need help."

Peter nods, dropping a hand to the kid's shoulder. "I know, buddy."

"I can't do this anymore."

"I know."

"They'll help me?"

"Yeah, kid. They're gonna help you." Neal nods again, and a slightly goofy grin dances on his lips. He takes a deep breath, and pushes himself up, with considerable effort, but falls again, Peter catching him. "Okay, okay. It's okay, Neal. Don't need to rush." Neal sits back against the wall, panting. He squeezes his eyes shut in his frustration, a tear falling and cutting a path down his cheek. Peter has to look away. "Neal. Buddy. It's okay. Come on, you can sleep it off, and we'll go when you're sober."

"I won't go. Sober. I won't go."

Peter sits back, studying Neal. "You won't go if you're sober." Neal looks away, fighting the tears that want to break through him. Peter sighs. "We'll go now."


	14. New Earth

CHAPTER 14

Prior to check-in, Neal's taking a walk on his own. After much hesitation from Peter. "I don't trust you," Peter had said.

"I don't expect you to," Neal had said. "But I really need this. Before I go."

Peter had acquiesced. As long as Neal wore his tracker.

Neal walks, alone, through the park. With his anklet back on, of course. That's just the deal. Get into treatment. Get sober. The anklet goes back on. In return? Neal got freedom. Not in the way he used to view it, but in the only way that mattered now: freedom; freedom from V, freedom from the memories, freedom from heroin. Freedom from his addiction. That was all he wanted. The eyes on him, the anklet… none of it meant a thing anymore. It simply wasn't what was important. He just wanted to be free of this addiction, this affliction that had gripped him by his collar, shook him around, and just wouldn't let go.

"Hey. Kid."

Neal stops. Neal winces. Neal does not turn around. He recognizes that voice.

"What, after all our time together, you can't face me?"

Neal stays where he is, cautious.

"It's me, buddy. The man who _always gave you what you needed_. The man who was _always there for you_. You don't have a second, for little old me?"

Neal speaks through gritted teeth. "What do you want." He shakes where he stands. He's majorly hit with the cruel beginnings of withdrawal at the moment, and this is just making it worse.

"I just want to say hi. I missed you. Can I see your face?"

Neal looks down. He sees the red target dancing over his chest. Oh, God. He turns, slowly, to face V. "Why are you doing this?" He's quiet. Nervous.

"I just know you're hurting. I've been watching. I know you're getting ready to head into the slammer, for people like you." Neal winces at that. "Just wanted to give you one more ride."

Neal could say he doesn't want it, but that wouldn't be the truth; and Peter had taught him to tell the truth. His voice cracks. "Please don't do this, I'm trying to quit. I'm getting help. Anything, I'll do anything but this."

V considers. "Wouldn't want to waste it. Hm. This could always go to Elizabeth. Or Peter."

Neal squeezes his eyes shut, he can't contain the tears that streak his cheeks. "Please don't."

"You're not giving me much room to work with, here. All these demands."

Neal glances to the side: left, then right, praying Peter will jump out of the bushes with a gun, here to save him. Now he regrets asking for a walk by himself.

"Please, I'm… I'm getting help, today. I'm getting - "

"You lost my customers when you botched that job with Lucky. Now you're paying for it." He sighs. "I don't need you anymore, Neal. You've proven you aren't worthy of getting a damn thing done. But that doesn't mean I'm letting you off the hook. My business will go on as usual, but I can't just let you go back to living your life. Where would be the fun in that?"

A thug saunters up from behind, wrapping around Neal and keeping him steady as he smacks the skin, lifts the vein, and holds a hand out to V in patient anticipation. V obliges, handing a loaded needle to the thug, who uncaps it and pushes it against Neal's skin. Neal cries out, struggling against the thug as the thing breaks his skin, but the drug is pushed into his body, the needle is disposed of, and the men are gone before the first moan can even fall from Neal's lips.

He sinks to the ground, hugging himself. In the middle of Central Park.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Neal's been gone too long. Find him."

"Already did, boss. He's been at the far West corner of Central Park for the better half of an hour."

"Damn it, Neal!"

"You think he's used again?"

Peter takes a moment, just to contemplate this, then nods. "I know he's used again."

When they find him, police are trying to talk to him. They've dragged him off the sidewalk, into the grass so he's not in the way, and are trying to coax information out of him so they can take him in.

"Fucking junkie. Kid, we need your last name. Neal what?"

"B- Bennett."

"Neal Bennett. You got any ID to back that up?"

Neal shakes his head with much effort, his chin colliding with his chest.

Peter jogs up. "Hey. Hey, I'm FBI. This is my witness, I can take care of him from here." He flashes his badge, and the cops roll their eyes, removing themselves from the scene.

Peter takes in the sight in front of him. Neal is leaned against a fence, higher than Peter has ever seen him.

"Neal."

"Hmmmm."

"We're gonna get you out of this hell-hole, okay? You're gonna stop this, and we're gonna get you better. I promise."

"Hmm."

"That's what you want, isn't it?"

"'m high."

"I know, bud. But you wanna get clean, right?"

"Feels good."

"Okay, buddy. Okay."

"Feels so good."

Peter studies him as he pulls him to the car. He hates how happy Neal looks, his long dark hair flopping in front of his glazed over eyes, the piercing blue dulled by the drug. This is not how Neal Caffrey should look. Not at all.

Once in the car, Neal is still high, and it takes some maneuvering to get him buckled in. They're taking him to the rehab. Right then. Right there.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Neal wakes up, he's shackled to a hospital bed. "What the…"

A gentle voice calms him. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. You're okay." The voice speaks to someone else. "Hey. He's awake, it's okay. You can unlock him."

Neal blinks, his vision first crossing together, then clearing. Peter comes into focus in front of him. Peter smiles. "Hey, bud."

"What happened?" Neal barely manages to croak his words. He tries to swallow, but his throat feels like it's stuffed with cotton. He looks around. Sterile. White. Sharp angles. Doctors. Clipboards.

"Where the hell am I?"

Peter sighs. "Rehab, Neal."

Neal squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep, shaking breath, as he carefully chooses his next words. "And I'm locked up. You think this place is good for me?"

"You were uncontrollable, Neal. You were so far gone. We couldn't get you to calm down." Peter hesitates. "It was so you wouldn't hurt yourself."

"You really thought I'd hurt myself?"

"You were threatening to kill yourself."

Neal goes silent, then stares at the bracelet around his wrist. "They tracking me?"

"Don't need to. You've got your anklet, remember?"

"I remember."

A brief moment of silence, before Peter says what they're both thinking. "I shouldn't have let you go on that walk."

"I didn't use, Peter. I mean, I did, but-"

"I don't want to hear it, Neal."

"No, that's not- It wasn't like- It was V. Peter, it was V. He found me."

Peter stops. "You better not be conning your way out of this, Caffrey. If this is some bullshit excuse-"

"I'm sure there are witnesses, cameras. Something." He hesitates. "He had a target over my chest, Peter, I didn't know what else to do."

"You swear you're telling me the truth."

"Scout's honor."

Peter holds up a finger and steps away, calling Diana, presumably. Neal leans back against the bed as a few orderlies approach, carefully, and unlock him. He twists his wrists around, stretching as he takes it all in. It terrifies him.

"I can't… I can't be here…" he mutters to himself, quietly, then louder. "I can't be here." He glances up, taking sharp breaths, and feeling the shaking begin to creep up on him. "Peter. Peter!"

The poor man runs back in, and stops when he sees that Neal is not in any immediate danger. "_What_, Caffrey."

"Let me out."

"No."

"Please, Peter, I can't be here. I can't do this. You don't have the right to keep me here."

"I'm not letting you go, Neal."

"Let me out."

"Absolutely not."

Neal grits at his teeth, then glances around, looking for an exit. "You can't do this to me, please. Please, Peter." He's close to tears. Peter can see that. He comes a little closer, keeping his voice down.

"This is going to be good for you, Neal. You're going to get better."

The tears begin. Neal can't handle how much he's cried, throughout this, but it makes sense, especially now that he's withdrawing so severely. "I'll do it, I'll get sober, Peter. I want to get sober, I just… I just can't do it _here._. Anywhere but here, Peter. Please. I'll taper off, I'll go cold turkey. However you want to do it. I can do this, I really can, just _please_ don't lock me in here."

It doesn't take long to realize why Neal is so adamant about getting sober anywhere but here: it reminds him of being locked up with V. With no choices. With no hope.

Peter carefully approaches Neal. "You can't be in this place, can you."

Neal keeps his head down, shaking it only slightly. "Please."

"Okay. Okay, I'll get you out of here. But we are going to do this, regardless. You got that? We'll do this at my house. Is that understood?"

Neal nods, threading his trembling fingers together. Peter sighs, stepping away one more time, to make one more call. As the phone rings and he waits for Elizabeth to pick up, he studies Neal. He studies the way the broken man wipes the tears away, his hands trembling as he does, in attempts to look a little stronger, a little tougher, then he really is in the moment. And he realizes that Caffrey is worn down, lost, and scared right now, and the last thing he needs is to be locked up and left alone. He needs love. He needs care from people who care about him. And he needs Peter.


	15. Hit Him Like a Ton of Bricks

CHAPTER 15

The first day was hell. The only thing keeping Neal on the wagon was Peter.

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Please aim for- Oh, Jesus." Peter winces as Neal drops his duffle bag and darts towards the bathroom. Peter sets down the suitcase and plops onto the sofa, rubbing his temples. He worries about Neal. More than anything, he's worried Neal will fail. And worse than that, what will happen to Neal if he fails. Neal doesn't take failure well, never has, and the worst that can happen is a relapse, only to send Neal to deeper and darker places as a result.

Elizabeth appears in the doorway, carrying a tray of the only form of sick-day sustenance she knows: grilled cheese and tomato soup.

"Is he okay?"

Neal returns from the bathroom, shuddering. "I'm okay. I'm just… you know… just…" Neal frowns, unable to find the right words.

"Hey, champ, don't worry about it." Neal sinks to the sofa, head in his hands.

"I don't think I can do this."

That's another worry of Peter's. What if Neal really can't do this? Out of all of the things Neal Caffrey is effortlessly good at, will he be able to do this? To kick this? Will he be able to stop? Stop the destruction, stop the self-loathing. Stop shooting up that goddamned drug that filth V introduced to him and got him hooked on?

"Of course you can." Peter winces as his voice cracks. He sounds even less confident than Neal.

"When do I get today's first dose?"

Peter winces at the fact that the first thing Caffrey is thinking about is the drugs. They had agreed to taper off, as long as it was closely monitored by Peter. Cold turkey, and Neal was sure he would just keel over and die.

"An hour."

Neal stares out the window, wishing it was higher so he could jump and just forgo this misery.. He spends the next hour unpacking his things in the guest room, prolonging each step in attempts to make the time pass, but once the hour is up, he's back in the living room, like a dog awaiting a bone.

"Jesus, you don't need to be so…"

Neal's eyes harden. "What, Peter? Desperate? Yeah, okay, I'm desperate, I don't know what to tell you." He glances out the window, again wishing he could just jump, and speaks these words. "I'm an addict. It's what we do."

Peter sighs, slapping the gear into Neal's outstretched palm. With trembling fingers that have lost the deftness of a lock-picking con, Neal prepares it, focusing with his signature steely eyes, despite the wateriness in them. He pushes the needle against his skin, taking a sharp breath before sliding it under and depressing the plunger. He pulls away the tourniquet and pulls out the needle, sighing in relief as the drug slams into his body. "Oh… "

Peter collects the tools, disposing of the needle in a sharps container he got from a local Needle Exchange. He glances back over at Neal, who has sunk a bit into the sofa, head back, jaw lulled open, and eyes glazed over as he stares out into nothing in particular.

"How are you, Neal?"

"Feels so good."

Peter sighs. "Good."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The second morning brings a fresh hell. Neal is curled up with a blanket next to the toilet, his dark waves matted against his forehead as he sweats. His teeth chatter. He groans.

Peter stumbles into the bathroom after little to no sleep, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. He takes in the scene in front of him: Neal wrapped up, bent over the toilet as he's miserably sick, and Peter shuts his eyes briefly to gather his thoughts. He hates seeing his friend this way. Because of heroin.

He still can't believe this is happening. He waits for Neal to finish. "How are you today, Neal?"

Neal sits back, wrapping the blanket around himself a little tighter. "I feel like shit."

Peter nods, clearing his throat. "Is there anything I can do?"

"When do I get the drug, Peter. You know that's all I care about, we don't need to dance around it."

Peter sighs. "Once at 10 AM, once at 10 PM."

"Twice," Neal confirms.

"You can do it, Neal. You can."

In the end, though, he couldn't, and he managed to crack the Burke's new safe to get to his drugs, mainlining a full dose.

"Oh, Jesus, Neal," Peter exclaims when he finds Neal slumped against the opened safe, mumbling soft, indistinct noises and cradling his mangled arm close to his chest.

Peter hooks his arms underneath Neal's shoulders and drags him to the guest room, pulling him and propping him up at the edge of the bed.

"Neal."

"Mmmm…"

"You gotta stop this."

"'Kay, Peter."

"I'm serious. I can't trust you. You can't keep this up or I'm going to have to get rid of it all and you'll go cold turkey."

Neal's eyes drift somewhere between open and closed, and he turns this unfocused gaze towards Peter.

"'M sorry."

Peter rocks back on his heels, standing up and letting one hand drop onto Neal's shoulder. He sighs. "No, you're not."

Neal laughs.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Goddammit."

"Neal. It's okay."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Neal. Really. We'll get this figured out."

"I was just in flight mode, I was running as far as I could from the problem. I didn't know what I was doing, I was just suddenly there, doing it."

"I know."

Neal looks up at Peter, who keeps rubbing at his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine, just, tired."

"Have you gotten any sleep?"

"I'll be fine."

"You haven't, have you?" Neal realizes this, then shakes his head, pushing himself up from his seat on the couch. "I'm not letting this ruin your life, too, Peter, I'm out of here. I'll do this on my own."

"Sit down."

The childish words are out of his mouth before he can even think. "You can't make me."

"I can and I will. All it takes is one call, Caffrey, and that anklet is gone, and you're back in the slammer, and I promise you they will not treat you with the care and respect I have. And they definitely will not provide you with tapering doses, Neal, they will cut you off completely because that is what jail is for. To keep criminals off the streets. Jesus, Neal, no matter what you get yourself into, you just have to be a criminal, don't you?"

Neal doesn't move, just studies Peter with his eyebrows raised. His face pales at the harsh words his good friend has spoken. "You done?" His voice cracks, and he winces at this, squeezing his eyes shut as his words betray his heart.

Peter shuts his eyes for a brief moment, letting the pain of what he's said sink in. Elizabeth just stands in the doorway, her mouth open, a witness to the horrific things Peter has just accused Neal of.

"Neal-"

"I didn't do this to myself. You know that."

"Neal, I'm sorry-"

"But you're right. I am a criminal. And I could have stopped. And I should have stopped. But I didn't. And look where I am, now. I can't stop."

"Neal."

Neal looks away, muttering quietly. "I just want this to end. I don't want to live in this nightmare anymore."

"I know. We'll fix this."

Neal looks up at this, and Peter has to close his eyes when he sees the pain in Neal's eyes. "Promise? Promise me, Peter. I can't do this anymore. I can't. It's killing me."

Peter swallows, then nods. "I promise."


	16. Light at the End of the Tunnel

CHAPTER 16

The next day, they're shipping Neal off to a rehab, and he spends the entire drive reassuring himself things will be just fine. He sits in Peter's car, head leaned against the window, staring out, out, out. Far away from where he was, a hope of someday reaching other places, rather than just staying where he was, the way he was.

"Are you okay, Neal?" Peter asks. Neal shakes his head once, but doesn't respond. "You're going to be okay. You can do this." After a beat. "You're scared."

Neal scoffs. "Terrified." He won't admit his biggest fear is losing this, losing the drug, his crutch, the only thing that ever made him feel truly complete. Neal is quiet when he speaks again, his voice cracking. "It's almost 11."

Peter glances over at Neal, searching for a meaning, then clears his throat. "Sorry?"

"I have a dose at 11, right? Do you have it with you?"

Peter sighs. Elizabeth, in the backseat, rifles through her purse, in silence. She hands Neal the gear without a word. He thanks her quietly, setting about preparing the dose. Peter tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

"Mmm…" comes the soft sound of relief as Neal injects himself. Peter's knuckles grow white.

"You okay, kid?"

"Yeah," again, came the voice, now slurred. "Yeah, m'good."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When they arrive, Neal is still mostly stoned. He's not in the crashing waves of crippling euphoria stage anymore, but he's relaxed. Too relaxed.

"Neal. Caffrey. C-A-F-F-R-E-Y. Yep." Neal stretches his legs after the long drive as they check in, glancing at Peter after he gives his name. Peter smiles at him, and squeezes his shoulder in attempts to reassure the young man that he's doing the right thing. Neal was beginning to feel good about this.

And then the first day happened.

"No. NO. Don't- don't do that, don't touch me. No, again, with the needles, really? Get- get OFF."

"Neal, we need you to calm down."

"I swear to God, you bring that needle near me again-"

"It's just a mild sedative, Neal."

"I don't want it."

"You need to relax." He squeezes his eyes shut as the nurse brings the needle to his skin, pushing it in and depressing the plunger. He fades away. Not in the ripples of joy and pleasure he felt whenever he took a ride with heroin, but he fades away into nothing, into emptiness. Into blank space, a void of white. He just slips off the face of the Earth.

And he hates it.

When he wakes, he's no longer strapped to a hospital bed, and instead finds himself in a small, cramped bedroom, with light blue walls and minimalist decoration. He's hugging a small pillow, and he lays atop the blanket.

"What the hell…"

He's alive. He's jonesing pretty bad, but he's alive. He takes a moment to appreciate this fact. And then he remembers where he is. Rehab.

A knock at the door pulls him out of his thought. "Yeah."

A woman enters, black hair sleek and long, and eyes just as black. She has sharp, angled features. She's very symmetrical. "Neal, I'm Vivien. I'm your counselor. I'm going to help, okay?"

Neal hops off the bed and stands, going to shake her hand, with his own shaking hands. "Hi Vivien. It's nice to meet you."

"It is." She smiles. "I'm sorry it's under these circumstances, but we will get you well again, okay? That is a promise."

"That's all I want," he says, wincing as his voice catches. The trembling is taking over. The crushing pressure is weighing down on him, building up. He needs release. A very light groan of need falls from his lips, and he winces again.

She smiles, it's sad. "How long have you been using?"

He sighs, looking away. "Close to a year. It wasn't my choice."

"That's what I hear, this is an… unusual situation."

He scoffs. "You're telling me."

"We specialize in law enforcement and hostage situations such as this. But never have we seen a situation in which a hostage is subjected to pharmacological torture used against him as 'payment' in return for service."

Neal's voice goes flat. "It was slavery. I was working for him for nothing. The only thing he gave me was more drugs." He pauses, and shrugs. "It was an escape."

"Until he let you go."

"He put me in a hotel suite and provided me with everything I needed to live like a high roller, as long as I kept working for him. But i couldn't. I think that was the point. He knew all I would be capable of was my work and getting high. It was all I cared about." He pauses again. "He ruined me."

"You're not ruined, Neal. You're down, and you're struggling with something extremely difficult. But you are not ruined. We can build you up again."

He takes a deep breath. He can't meet her eyes. "Okay. Okay."

"You're okay?"

He glances to the side, and shakes his head, feeling the churning in his stomach and his muscles begin to ache. "It's rough." He nods, and looks up, now looking her in the eye. "It's rough. But, thank you. So much, for helping me." Hesitation. "I need this."

"And we're here to help, Neal. Always. Take a moment to regroup, meet me at the medical center in a few minutes. We'll get you started."

He nods, and she goes. And to himself, and only for himself, he speaks. "Day one. Here we go."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Drug of choice?"

Neal winces. It was never his choice. But the fact that he kept going, he guesses that says something. "Heroin."

"Length of use?"

"A year."

"R.O.A.?"

"Intravenous."

"Previous attempts at cessation?"

Neal has to think. "Twice." He sighs, realizing he only ever put real effort into stopping just twice. Just two times. Once on his own, immediately after V let him go, and once with Peter.

"And how did those work out?"

"Stayed sober for almost a week, the first time." He hesitates. "Didn't last two days, the second."

"And you want sobriety."

"God, yes. I want nothing more."

The doctor writes this down, and looks up at Neal. He smiles. "Thank you, Neal. I think you're ready to get started."


	17. A Friend in Need

CHAPTER 17

The worst part of all of it was remembering.

Neal knows, in all of this, that he'll make it through the withdrawals, no matter how much they gnaw at his insides. No matter how cold it gets, how hot it gets. No matter how rapidly his stomach churns, leaving him bent over the toilet and sick with shame. No matter what the drug throws his way as it leaves his body, the worst part of all of it was remembering. Remembering what V did to him, remembering the life he used to have. Remembering what his life had become now. Remembering the things he made him do, the person he made him become, for the drug. The sick things Neal had done in exchange for a hit.

In rehab, they were all lumped together. Neal sits in his daily AA/NA meeting, drumming his fingers on the table, jaw set and eyes searching the floor.

"Neal? Would you like to share today?" He shakes his head, grinding his teeth together. "It's your third day. We'd like it if you'd share." He sighs, groaning as he pushes himself up and his muscles begin to work, aching that dull, throbbing ache.

He walks, stiff, to the front of the room, standing behind the podium, white knuckles gripping its corners. "Hi. I'm Neal. I'm an addict."

"Hi, Neal," comes the group's response.

"I'm, uh, I'm sober three days." A light smattering of applause as they congratulate him on his meager accomplishment. He forces a small smile, but it fades, and he returns to his thoughts. "I guess… I guess I'll just talk about what happened to me. A man, a vicious, vile, man, saw fit to use me. To use what I had to offer to the FBI, for his own. He, uh, he drugged me, and got me hooked, and then let me go. He kept me in the drugs, if I did his work. This… this was never my choice. I never wanted this. I guess no one… no one plans, on getting themselves into this, but that first hit, or the second, or the tenth… those weren't mine."

He hesitates. Everyone nods. They haven't been in his situation, yet, they all have.

"But every hit after that. That was all me. I was too scared, to try to go back to the way things were, even though I had it so good, because I was too scared of failing. I was too scared of feeling, again, I just wanted numb. To forget. I guess, that's where I got lost. I finally, finally found a way to forget, and it's going to kill me." He looks down, not wanting to meet the eyes of his fellow patients. "I'm not ready for that. I have a few more things I want to do. So, that's… that's why I'm here. Thanks."

Again comes the light smattering of applause. He goes to sit, but the churning just gets worse, and the next moment he finds himself over the toilet, sick as a dog.

"Neal? Neal, are you alright?" Rick, an orderly, peeks his head around the corner.

"I'll be-" He ducks his head again, coughing. Rick sighs, and goes to Neal when he's done, helping him up.

"Hey, man. Let's get you taken care of. You've got a visitor."

Once Neal's cleaned up, they usher him out to the visiting hall, where he sinks into a sofa with a palm pressed against his forehead as he takes deep, shaking breaths. A figure walks in, approaching carefully. Neal doesn't look up to see who it is.

"Peter-" he starts, but a voice cuts him off.

"Really? Seriously? I know you're all messed up in here, but don't you dare tell me I look like the Suit."

Neal looks up, grinning. Mozzie stands in front of him, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised. Neal stands, throwing an arm around Mozzie and giving his oldest friend a hug. "Mozz, man, what are you doing here?"

When they separate, they find seats at a table, across from each other. Neal drums his fingers on the table, bounces a leg, swallows every few minutes… the anxiety is killing him and all he wants is to get high. He never wanted Mozzie to see him this way.

"You disappeared, Neal. You had fallen off the radar. I have to admit, I was kind of personally offended." He looks around. "What is this place, exactly?"

Neal laughs, shaking his head, but it quickly fades, and he evades the question. "I got into some trouble."

"I heard. The Suit told me."

"How… much did he tell you?"

Mozzie looks sad for a moment. "Not enough."

Neal nods, looking out the window. He won't make eye contact for this, or he'll lose it. "I didn't want this."

"Listen to me, man. This is not your fault."

"I kept it going, I could have-"

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda. You're alive. You're safe." He pauses. "And they got the guy."

Neal's eyes shoot back to Mozz. "Mozzie…"

"I'm serious. Peter called me, said he's swamped at the Bureau, working out the details, but he wanted me to let you know. He's gone, Neal."

"How-"

"One of his men botched a job, got caught. Gave up the location for a shorter sentence."

Neal scoffs. "That's what happens when you drug up your employees. He wasn't the only one to royally screw up a job."

"They stormed him, man. They tore the operation apart."

Neal leans forward, elbows to knees and head in hands, breathing sharply. He's overwhelmed. "Oh, my God."

"Neal?"

"Oh, my… Oh, my God, he's gone. He's gone."

"You're safe, Neal. You don't have to worry about him, anymore."

Neal looks up, searching the ceiling, willing the tears to crawl back into his eyes. "I thought I was never going to get away. I knew. I knew he would always find me. I always knew."

Mozzie doesn't respond, and Neal glances back over at him, frowning, trying to figure out what's got him spooked. He sighs when he follows Mozzie's gaze to Neal's arms, and the scars that cover them, old and new. Neal shuts his eyes for a moment. "Mozz…"

"The, uh… The Suit… didn't… mention… those. That. This."

"You didn't know?"

"He said drugs. I figured… I figured he meant like, like sedatives. I knew this was a treatment facility, but… this kind… I didn't…"

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

"Neal-"

"I'm sorry."

"What happened? What did he have you on? Did he… do… all of that? Or…"

"No. He didn't."

"You-"

"Yeah, Mozz. I did."

"How could you… how did he… "

"You want the whole goddamn story?" Neal is suddenly angry, he can't stop the itching, burning through him, and his guts are cramping, squeezing, contracting and never relaxing. He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing at his temple.

"Kind of?"

"He doped me up, got me hooked. Made me work for drugs. And then he let me go, and I couldn't… I couldn't stop. I just couldn't. I can't."

"That's why you're here."

"Yeah."

"I thought this was a loony bin." Neal can't help but laugh at this. "No, seriously, this…this is…"

"Rehab. Drugs. Yeah."

"Heroin."

"Yeah."

"You're hooked."

"Yes."

"But you're getting help."

"Yes, Mozz." He rubs at his temples again.

Mozzie quirks a brow. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not."

"You don't want to…"

"Yes, I do." It's Mozzie's turn to shut his eyes, then face the ceiling so Neal doesn't have to see him cry.

"I am truly displeased with you right now, Neal. For not coming to me. For not getting help, sooner."

"Me, too, man."

Mozzie sighs. "Truly displeased. When do you get out?"

"Under a month."

"Technically, you can leave anytime-"

"I can't, Mozz. I need this."

"I know, I know, I know, I'm not encouraging you to do otherwise, just remember not to let The Man tell you what you can and can't do."

"What I can't do is go back into the world right now. I'll keep doing… this."

Mozzie stares at Neal's arm again, and Neal looks away, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Mozzie notices this.

"I didn't even know you owned jeans."

"Bought some for the occasion."

"Rehab."

"Quite an occasion."

"Quite… Apropos."

"What, does rehab mean casual? I'm not taking this casually."

"No, no, comfort."

"I'm not comfortable."

"Can I make fun of you for wearing jeans?"

"Absolutely not."

Mozzie smiles. Neal smiles. And things almost feel normal again.


	18. Beautiful Disaster

CHAPTER 18

Neal was very sick. His body, his mind, his soul, had all become sick, tainted with the remnants of a year gone wrong. A year spent in Hell, the worst kind of Hell, with something that made him feel so good, so alive, yet was going to kill him. He did his best, to stay sober, but in the end, he couldn't, he couldn't do it, and he ended up in rehab.

Here, now, he sits in Vivien's office, staring at his trembling hands as she lectures him. "You're going to be fine, Neal. We have all the faith in the world, that you will be just fine. How have you been feeling?"

"Like shit."

"How about inside?"

He glances up at this, meeting her eyes and staring into them. "Like shit."

"Do you want to elaborate on that?"

He shifts in his chair. "Just… feeling. I can feel again, but it's not feelings I want. I'm not numb anymore. I want that numb back. I can't handle… I can't handle the knowing, the feeling, of what happened to me. What I did for him, what I did for the drugs. And even farther back than that, the things I did before all this. Who I was as a person. I wasn't… I'm not a good person, Vivien. I did some really bad things."

"You're a con."

"I'm a brilliant con. And that applies to everything about me."

He winces as he realizes his entire existence is fake. He doesn't know who he really is, because he always puts on a show. That flashy smile, those steely eyes that gaze into another's. His flippant attitude to all things legal and even the grey areas in-between. It's all fake. He's just… fake. Like a forgery of a real person. Just a shadow, just a shell. A shell of a real man.

He isn't a real man. He says this out loud. "I'm not a real man."

"How can you possibly say that? Look at where you are, what you're doing. It takes guts to do what you're doing and get help. The most intensive kind. You should take pride in that."

"I'm a heroin addict," he says, his voice flat, as though this statement somehow trumps everything she's just said.

"You're a heroin addict in recovery."

"No, I'm not. I'm always going to be this way. The only difference is whether or not I'm using. If I was recovered, I wouldn't be thinking about it every goddamn day. But that's all I think about. It consumes my mind, all of my thoughts. It never gets any better."

"It does, I promise it does."

"How would you know?"

"Because I'm sober seven years."

He blinks. "Seven years?"

"I was just like you. I don't think about it anymore."

"It doesn't just eat at you?"

"Some days it does. Sometimes it's hard. But that's when I get to a meeting and talk to other addicts. It helps."

Neal nods. It does help. "Seven years," he repeats. He just can't get over that. "Wow." Now that this has entered his life, he can't imagine seven years sobriety. He can't imagine one year, let alone the rest of his damn life. He doesn't want that. He wants to use. He wants to use as much as he can, whenever he can, as long as it can numb him up. He feels this need building up inside of him, churning and swirling around in his gut. He has to bend forward, hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Oh, God."

"What's going on, Neal?"

"I'm not ready to do this."

"Yes, you are. You know how I know? Because you made the decision to come here. You have no idea how big a step that is."

"I can't… I can't do this."

"Neal? Listen to me. Look at me." He does, face strained with pain. "You can. I know you can."

"I don't want sobriety, I want numb."

"I know. But you know you need sobriety, right? That's what you need, to keep your life. To keep your friends, to keep all the good."

He nods, looking down again. "Yes."

"Good. So we continue to work."

"Okay. Okay."

Later, Peter sits in front of him in the visiting area, studying Neal, who keeps his head down, tapping a foot, cracking his knuckles, and clenching his jaw. "Neal?"

Neal looks up. "Yeah."

"What's going on?"

"I want to use."

"Why's that?"

"Because I can feel you looking at me and all I feel is shame for everything I've put you through. I can't handle that."

"Neal, you're my friend, a friend whom I would do anything for. You must know that, after all this time."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. This isn't your fault."

"How can it not be?"

"I saw Sara today." Neal's eyes shoot up again.

"What?"

"She asked where you were."

"What did you tell her?" Neal says, suddenly panicked.

"I didn't tell her what happened, if that's what you're wondering. She knows you're in a hospital, recovering from a hostage situation."

"The same thing you told Mozzie."

"She wants to come visit you, Neal. She wants to make sure you're okay."

"Just save her the trouble and tell her I'm not okay. I don't want her to see me like this."

"I think she deserves to know."

"She let me go, okay, Peter? She kind of gave up that right a long time ago."

"I told her to come by tomorrow."

"You what?!"

"She'll be here around noon."

"I can't believe you, Peter."

It didn't change the fact that she was coming.

The next day, he sits atop his bed, rocking back and forth, scratching at his arms. He inspects the scars that cover his arms, shutting his eyes and he exhales a shaky breath. They won't let him wear long sleeves, to make sure he isn't harming himself. She'll see every wound.

A knock at the door. "Neal? Visitor. A very pretty one, at that."

He scoffs. "Tell her I don't want to see her."

Vivien goes to sit at the edge of Neal's bed. "You do have that right, but she seems very concerned about you, Neal. I think you should see her."

"Fine."

He goes out, slowly, keeping his head down. He only barely lifts it once he makes it to the visitation room, seeing her form, facing away from him as she waits.

The name catches in his throat. "Sara."

She turns to see him, and she can't control the smile on her face. She stands, going to him, her arms open to hug him. "Neal."

He holds her tight, breathing in the scent of her, her hair, her perfume. Just her. Just the thing of intoxicating beauty that is Sara Ellis. "How are you?" she asks, her voice full of concern as she whispers into his hair. He can't help but pull away at that, keeping his eyes down.

"I've been better."

"What happened to you?" she asks, holding him at arms length and surveying him. Her eyes stop on the scars. "Oh, my God, Neal-"

"Sara-"

"What did you do to yourself?"

He looks away at this. "I lost my way. I'm trying to get better."

"Neal, how could you keep this from me?"

"It wasn't really my choice in the first place, Sara. The man, who took me. He did this to me."

"This was all him?"

He hesitates. "No."

"I don't understand."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"But you're getting better."

He winks at her. "Every day."

"Okay. Okay, good. Good, Neal. How long have you been here?"

"Ten days. I have 18 more."

"Almost halfway through."

He's quiet as he confides in her. "I don't feel ready."

"You don't have to be ready yet. That's why you still have 18 days here." She pauses. "You never called. A year, and nothing."

"I was a prisoner for half of it."

"And the other half? What, just too high to care?"

Her words hit him like a punch in the gut. "I… Yeah. I really was."

"I'm sorry, Neal, I didn't…think."

"It's fine. It's… it's true. I was. And scared. I wanted to call you. Every day. But I couldn't. Not the way I was. You didn't need to see that. You didn't deserve this… this burden."

"Caffrey, if it meant helping you, I would have been there in a second. I can't believe you didn't come to me."

"I came here, didn't I?"

"After a year?"

"I was sick, Sara. I was really sick. I wasn't in control, I didn't know what I was doing. It wasn't… I didn't mean to hurt you like this. You weren't supposed to know."

"You thought you'd just keep it from me forever?"

"I had hoped I could."

She sighs. "What made you decide to finally come here?"

He's quiet. "Peter."

"What did he say?"

"It was an ultimatum."

"It wasn't your choice."

Neal looks away. "No."

"So, if he hadn't made you come, you'd probably still be out there. Doing… that."

He can't look at her, he just looks up, willing himself not to cry. "Yes."

"Caffrey…" She pulls him into another hug, and it hits him. He breaks, crying, again, as all the pain bubbles up in his throat and leaves him in the form of hot tears staining her beautiful blue dress.

"I'm so sorry…"

"Neal, stop. It's okay. You're okay. You'll be okay."

He didn't feel like it.


	19. Back to Beginning

CHAPTER 19

When Sara leaves, Neal sits, just staring out into the empty walls of his room, eyes wide and unmoving in shock as he takes in the last words she left him with: "I love you, Neal."

He swallows, eyes slowly shifting left to right. She loves him. He shuts his eyes. He knows he loves her, too. Just perhaps not in the same way she meant. "I love you, too," he says aloud. Now that she's gone. In the moment, he was just silent, caught up by her words, and he just nodded and swallowed. She hugged him again, tried to look into his eyes, but he looked away. She nodded, and left. After, "I love you, Neal."

He shuts his eyes again, clenching his jaw, all of his injection sites burning at once to be used. He needs it. He needs to escape this, these feelings, of remorse, of regret, of love. He's not comfortable with it, he's not ready for it yet. Not at all. This sick part of him isn't ready to accept Sara's love, and even if he was out, if he was free, he knows the drug would come before all else, including her. He isn't sure he'll ever be better.

Days later, with only a week left, he's still feeling that way. She hasn't been back. She left the building, and with that she took her love away. "I miss you," he says aloud, quietly, as he sits in the visiting hall with no one in front of him. Peter has just left. Neal refused to tell him how his conversation with Sara went. He refuses to mention anything about how he's feeling, about his recovery. He refuses, because he doesn't want Peter to know how he's feeling, that he' s still so sick, that he's just not ready.

On his last day, immediately after graduation and as Neal's packing his things to go, Peter's there, with El, waiting to take him home. He hasn't visited since seven days ago, when Neal shut him out completely.

"You plan on talking to me today?" Peter finally sighs.

"What's there to say, Peter?"

Peter sighs. He's stressed, he's nervous. El, at home, has seen it, has put up with it, but she does, she does put up with it, because she knows it's not some case he can't get his mind off of, or another Agent who doesn't do things his way, but Neal. It's about Neal, and for that, he is forgiven. "I just want to know how you are." El squeezes Peter's hand, but he keeps his eyes trained on his CI.

"I'm fine."

"Really." Peter doesn't sound convinced.

"I'm nervous." El forces a smile at him.

"We'll take care of you," she says. They're taking Neal in again, for another month, while he adjusts to being back in the real world, and sober. Now that V's off the streets. Now that Neal has been clean 28 days. Peter holds a hand up at El's words.

"Wait a second. Neal, you need to know something, you need to know this before we go any further. I am not going to be your babysitter, I am not going to be your counselor. I am going to be your boss, and I am going to be your friend, the way things were before all of this. You will be staying with us for a month while you adjust. But that does not mean I will be on your back about using. You will return to work, you will do your job, and you will do it well. You will be randomly drug-tested by the Bureau. It may happen every day, it may not happen at all. Completely random. I cannot control what you do outside of this place, I refuse to control what you do outside of this place. I have two rules. You do not, and I want to make this perfectly clear, you do NOT use in my home. Never. Ever. And if you fail a single drug test, you are back behind bars. I can't save you." He considers, and finishes with this. "I won't save you. I can't do it anymore."

Neal swallows, nodding. "I know."

"Hughes has been more than generous with this deal."

"I know." Silence, as they both take in what all of this means for Neal. Neal glances up again. A question. "What does the office know?"

"As far as they are concerned, you were in a hospital recovering from the hostage situation. The same thing we've told everyone else. Obviously, Jones and Diana know the details, but they're sworn to privacy. The case is classified. Only myself or higher ups can see it."

Neal shifts. "And OPR?"

"They know everything."

Neal scoffs, and his stomach churns. "Great."

"Are you ready for this?"

The question hits Neal, hard. He shoves the last folded item into his duffle, and turns to face Peter. "I don't know. I guess we'll see."

Peter folds his arms. "I guess we will."

At home, Neal's un-packing his things, after meticulously packing them back at the rehab. It seems mundane, his life seems so mundane. He can't wait to get back on the field and do good work. Peter raps at his door twice. "Can I come in?"

Neal responds with a gruff affirmation, something of a grunt and a combination of the word 'Yeah', and Peter carefully enters.

"Dinner's almost ready."

"Don't know if I'm up for a meal right now."

"El made truffled ravioli."

"She's a doll."

"Still not up for a meal?"

Neal smiles, it's soft. "I'd appreciate a meal. Thank you, Peter."

Peter looks up and sees Neal's eyes, the way they sparkle. The glimmer of mischief that dances through them. He smiles, he knows what this 'thank you' means. It's a 'thank you' for everything, everything Peter's done.

"See you in five," he says.

At dinner, Neal's noticeably silent, occasionally loading a small forkful and passing it through his lips, but he winces when he swallows.

El puts down her fork and knife. "Come on, it's not that bad."

"No, it's… it's great, Elizabeth. Really great. Thank you." He hesitates. "I'm just feeling a little rough."

She nods, reaching for his hand and squeezing it once. They finish dinner in near silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hey, kid," calls Jones.

"Welcome back," says Diana. Neal forces a small as he walks into the office the next morning, Peter behind him, coaxing him forward. He slowly, carefully makes his way to his desk, fingers skimming over its surface. He sinks into the chair, still careful, leaning back slightly. He spins once in it. He opens the drawer: his ties. He smiles. Peter clears his throat in front of him. Neal looks up, still smiling.

"Neal. Conference room."

Neal makes his way up to the conference room, where the whole team is standing around, or sitting, flipping through files.

Peter shoves one against Neal's chest, and Neal grips it, leaning against the wall, crossing his legs, and flipping it open.

He looks up at Peter. "So," he says, wearing a grin. "Who are we catching today?"


	20. Danse Macabre

**A/N: Hi all, I know I haven't spoken to you personally in a while, so I thought I'd say hi. Hope you've all been well. I've got a new story idea in this works, separate from this one, that I'll probably be beginning on within the next month. This is a really long chapter, as we're getting close to the end of the story. Of course, this here is the title chapter to this story. "Sometimes, the light at the end of the tunnel is a train."**

CHAPTER 20

"Today's case is pretty basic. Ponzi scheme, but for some reason the people who are signed up towards the bottom have suddenly started dying."

"Weird," Neal mutters, scanning over the files.

"You think?"

"Wouldn't the operator be the biggest suspect?" Diana asks.

"Should be, except he's dead, too."

"Who goes after the top and the bottom? Killing at the top, I get, but what's the pay-off for killing those at the bottom?"

"If it's someone involved in the scheme, towards the middle, wouldn't that cut them off? Fewer people at the bottom means no opportunity for future pay-off."

"That's where it gets really weird. You're exactly right, we need to figure out this guy's motivation before we can get anywhere to finding who he is."

"Why isn't this in Homicide?" Neal finally asks the question they're all wondering.

Peter smiles. "They wanted us. More specifically, they wanted you."

Neal glances up. Diana smiles. "You're kidding," she says.

"Nope. Asked for Neal Caffrey, in the flesh."

Neal's smile fades, and his face flushes. He squeezes his eyes shut, then excuses himself, rushing to the bathroom. After shutting himself into a stall, he runs a hand through his hair and tries to steady his breathing. He's not ready for this. He's not ready for this kind of pressure. A rap at the bathroom door, before he hears Peter enter. "Neal…"

"I'm not ready to do this," Neal calls to him.

Peter sighs. "Neal, I know you're feeling overwhelmed. That's okay."

"I need a meeting."

"I can get you to a meeting."

Neal swings the door open. Peter is taken back by the amount of pain in the grimace Neal's face holds. "Right now," Neal asserts.

Peter nods. "Right now."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter waits outside, speaking to Diana on the phone. Inside the hall, Neal is sitting, his white knuckles gripping the edges of the chair. He listens intently to the members of N.A. speak. He needs to hear their stories. He's called on.

"Hi. I'm Neal. I'm an addict."

"Hi, Neal," chirps the chorus. He forces a smile, and it fades. "I have a month sober, today." A light smattering of applause. "Thanks. I, uh, I guess I'm here because I made some bad decisions. I tend to do that. Really. I get ahead of myself, I get in my own way, and I was my own downfall. Once I had tried it, while the first few times weren't my choice, they were forced upon me… I always loved it. From the moment I first tried it. I think that says something about me, that I've always been an addict. It's in my nature, it's in my blood. I take things as far as they can possibly go, and I get into trouble, but it doesn't stop me. I just couldn't bring myself to care. Even when things got bad, when I did start to care, I couldn't stop. I was so scared of facing who I was and what I was, that I just stayed numb."

The members nod. They understand.

"I really want to use right now. I have a lot of pressure, on me. From work, from the people I care about, not to mess this up. And I keep thinking, the only thing that could alleviate this crushing pressure on me is to use. I can't keep thinking like that. I saw myself thinking that, so I came here. And here I am. I guess, that's all I have to say, about it. Thank you."

He goes to sit. They clap. He exhales sharply, glancing back towards the door, where he can see Peter pacing back and forth on the phone. Once the meeting is done, he excuses himself and immediately heads for Peter, who is just hanging up the phone. "What's going on?"

"Diana has some intel for us. We should head back to the office."

As they pull up, Neal is breathing heavily again. Peter stops the car, turns it off, and turns towards Neal. "Neal. Listen. You can do this. I know you can. You did it before all of this, you can do it now. Please just hear me: you will be fine."

Neal nods, taking shallow, quick breaths. They begin to slow as he relaxes. "Okay. Okay." He nods again. "Thank you, Peter."

Peter slaps him on the back. "Of course, buddy."

They go inside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So we've got the top guy, one Leandro Miller."

"Dead," Peter confirms.

"As a doornail," says Jones.

"What do we know about him?"

At this point, Neal takes over. "The guy is infamous for running smaller schemes like this to collect funds. He goes in intervals. Small scheme, small scheme, huge scheme. The smaller schemes are pools for funds that he uses to jump-start his massive schemes, like the one we're dealing with here. Associations in the criminal underworld start with…"

As Neal continues on, Peter studies him, smiling. The kid is doing just fine.

Later that night, they are sitting together on the sofa, Peter intently watching the game, El and Neal staring at him with eyebrows raised. Occasionally, Peter shouts at the T.V. Neal jumps slightly, El just shakes her head.

"You're doing okay?" she asks after a moment.

He forces a smile. "Yeah, I'm… I'm great."

"Really?"

"I'm feeling rough-"

"Like you've been."

"-but it's getting better."

"Are you being honest with me, Neal?"

He smiles, it's sheepish. "I'm a con, El. What do you think?"

"This isn't some scheme, it's your life."

He knows that. He knows how high the stakes are. This little, tiny inkling inside of him keeps nudging at his brain that he can't get through this without a hit, and he's pretty sure it's the truth. The longer it goes on, the stronger it gets, and he's not sure it will ever go away.

"I've done a lot of bad things, El."

"That doesn't mean you deserve this."

"I know, I just…" Hesitation. "I just can't help but feel that this is what I deserve, after all of this."

"You deserve the best, Neal. You haven't always made the best choices. But you are a good man. You must know that. I know that. Peter knows that."

"Peter threw me in jail."

"And got you out."

Peter looks up, face full of chips smothered in the seven-layer dip El has prepared. "What?"

Neal scoffs. "You're a gentleman."

El smiles. "You know what a good man Neal is, don't you?"

"F'course," he says, chewing, then swallowing. Neal looks down.

"Thanks. Really."

They both smile at him, and it begins to feel like they're right.

But later that night, Neal is shaking with anxiety, and he pulls on his over-coat over his suit, and heads for the door, first grabbing a spoon from the kitchen and slipping it into his pocket.

Peter glances over his shoulder from the couch, suspicious. "Where you off to?"

Neal, startled by this, blinks, and turns. "Just… going for a walk."

Peter takes a moment to consider this, then nods. His next words hold weight, they almost reprimand Neal: "Do what you've gotta do." It's sour. It almost says, 'I dare you'.

Neal nods, quickly heading out the door. At the pharmacy, he purchases a pack of insulin needles, shoving them into his pocket, then hurries down the dark streets of Manhattan looking for a connection.

He stumbles into a shady-looking guy around a corner. "Hey."

The man turns, sizing Neal up and checking out the dapper attire. "What can I do for you?"

Neal shifts, awkwardly. He's nowhere near his charming self when transacting for drugs. Despite his experience, he's only had to purchase for himself a few times. "I, uh, I was hoping you could help me, with something."

"Whatcha looking for?"

Neal shifts again. "H?" He winces. So not smooth.

"I got H, how much you looking for?"

Neal sighs, glancing over his shoulder. "Just a bag, man."

"Seriously? I'm pulling a special on bundles. Bundle for $110."

"That's overpriced, not under."

"Where the hell are you buying, man? This is Manhattan. Bag is $12. Not gonna get you far, though."

"I know where it'll get me." He checks over his shoulder again, then glances back at the shady dude. "Half a bundle."

"65 bucks, brother."

Neal hands him the cash and shoves his prize into his pocket. "Yeah, thanks."

"Anytime, brother. You come back when you're looking to deal for real."

Neal scoffs. He doesn't have a problem. He won't be back. He's just looking for one more ride. He turns to go, ducking out of the corner and back into the streets. He nearly slams into another man walking the other way, a police officer. He winces, keeps going, then checks behind him. The officer has turned into the alley. Neal hears shouts. He barely missed going down.

Now he just needs to find somewhere to do this.

His first instinct is June's, but he shakes it out of his head. He can't do that to her. Next is one of Mozzie's many safe-houses, but he can't do that to Mozzie, either.

He stops in front of a building. His own personal safe-house, the abandoned art studio he used to shoot up in.

He trudges up the stairs, stopping in front of the boarded up door with a padlock over it. He squeezes his eyes shut. All of these coincidences are starting to add up to what looks like signs, signs telling him to turn around, to stop this, to get back to Peter and El where he's safe. But he can't.

He turns around, leaning against the wall to catch his breath, then sinks to the floor. He glances left and right. Here. Here is where it will happen.

Out from his pockets come the gear. The spoon, the lighter. The small bottle of water he picked up at the pharmacy. The needles, the bags, the cotton from Peter's bathroom. He sets up and prepares, studying closely as he mixes the cocktail. Once it's ready, he forgoes any sort of tying-off mechanism and yanks off his coat, rolling up his shirt-sleeve with deft fingers. He searches around, tongue poking out between his teeth in his focus. He pushes the needle in. He hesitates, then pulls it out. He can't.

He studies the cocktail inside of the syringe. Yes, he can. He has to. He needs to. He can feel the need, shaking him to his bones. He re-inserts the needle into another location and pushes it in, immediately feeling the rush. He tosses the needle aside, heading to his wonderland as he head lolls back and his jaw hangs slack. His eyes flutter shut, and he pants as the high grips him. The sweet song sings solace into his ears, his blood, his mind, as he gets his relief. This won't happen again, this can't happen can't let it. Why did he let that dealer sell him five bags? What's he going to do with the other four? He told himself one last ride. Here he was, experiencing it.

He sinks a little lower, head nodding forward, soft moans coaxed from his lips. He feels good, for the first time in over a month solid, he actually feels wholly, truly, good.

Hours later, once the initial high is gone and he's staggering through the cold back to Peter's, his hands shake in the pockets of his coat as he grips the syringes and the powder in each respective pocket.

He trudges up the steps, opening the door and stopping when he sees Peter standing in front of him, arms crossed. "Glad you're back," Peter says. Neal forces a smile, and tries to move past him. Peter holds an arm up, studying Neal's eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit, Peter, please let me in."

"You remember what I told you."

Neal nods, shutting his eyes for a brief moment before trying to move past again. Peter finally lets him, and Neal sinks to the sofa, running his hands through his hair.

"Anything you want to tell me, Neal?" Peter says, going to join him at the couch. El stands in the doorway from the kitchen, arms crossed and studying them with tears in her eyes that threaten to fall.

Neal fishes into his pockets, removing the gear, the needles, and powder, and slapping them into Peter's hand. "I need you to get rid of these."

"Where the hell did you get this?"

"The street, cop rolled him as soon as i left."

"Did you use?"

Neal looks straight into Peter's eyes. "No, Peter."

"How can I trust you?"

Neal maintains the stare. He shrugs his shoulders. "You can't. I know that. I'm just telling you what happened." Hesitation. "I didn't use."

"I'm getting rid of these."

"Good."

"Neal."

"Yeah."

"There's a syringe missing from this package."

"I was ready to do it, Peter. I was ready to. But I didn't."

"I don't believe you."

Neal nods, looking down. "I'm sorry, Peter. That I've put you through this." He swallows, then repeats himself. "I'm just telling you what happened."

Peter nods, slowly. "Okay."

"I'm going up to bed." Neal stands, heading for the stairs. Peter just watches him go.

"Okay," he calls after. Neal just nods, trudging up the stairs.

Once in front of his bed, though, as the last tendrils of the drug leave his system, he collapses into thing, curling up, and letting the tears fall.

He can't win.

Downstairs, Peter is sighing, gripping the gear, clenching his teeth. He knows what Neal is done. He just needs to catch him in the act. It isn't his job to patrol the kid every second anymore, it's all his choice. Peter just has to hope that next time, Neal's choice will be the right one.


	21. Complex Heaven

CHAPTER 21

"Neal. Neal, pay attention."

Neal glances up, shaking out of the haze. The absence of the drug has left him feeling empty and cold, and while he hasn't used in the days since his… indiscretion, he still feels it shaking him to his core. It's been a week, and he still feels it: empty, cold, and most of all, lost.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Miller was at his vacation home in Providence when he was killed. This was someone close to him," Peter says.

"That still doesn't explain why our suspect killed the people at the bottom," Neal questions.

"Vengeance? Against the whole family? Kill at the top, remove any opportunity to make any more money at the bottom?" Diana offers.

"Yeah, maybe this isn't about money at all. Maybe this is completely personal," says Jones. A figure appears in the doorway, Hughes, giving Peter the double finger point.

Peter nods, then motions to Neal. "Outside."

Neal swallows, following him. He shoves his hands into his pockets, trying to maintain nonchalant. "What's up?"

"Drug test, Neal. Now," Hughes says, his voice stern.

Neal swallows again. Heroin stays in the system a few days. Not a week. Unless they pluck his hair out, then he's royally screwed. "Not a problem."

They lead him to a private room on a lower floor. A technician hands him a cup.

He swallows again. He goes into the room, taking care of business.

When he's done, he exits, making haste in his anxiety, nearly slamming into Peter as he swings open the door.

"Hey, hey, where's the fire?" Peter says.

Neal's quiet. "I'm sorry, it's just… Just anxious. Really."

Peter studies Neal for a moment, who shifts in his discomfort. "Neal. I know what you did."

Neal stares Peter down. "What did I do?"

Peter shakes away Neal's attempt to distract him. "I also know it's been long enough that it won't show up on the test."

Neal swallows, then realizes what's happening. "You dictate when the drug tests are."

Peter leans in, his voice rough. "This cannot, and I will repeat this, can NOT, happen again. I understand. You slipped, you fell. It's done. You're done with this shit, and I don't ever want to find out that you've done it again. You are better than this, Neal. You are goddamn better than this and I will not stand by and watch this take you again. Not again." He scoffs. "You're my kid, you know? I can't… I won't. There won't be this forgiveness next time. I won't hesitate to put you away. I hope you know that."

Neal looks down. His voice is quiet, barely a murmur. "I know that. Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Hesitation. "Just don't let me down again." Neal nods, his head still down. "Don't let me down, kid."

"I won't. I swear I won't. It was just the one time. I swear to you, Peter."

In truth, Neal had gone out every day since that last hit and purchased. But Peter knew that, because every time, Neal came home crying, the gear in his hands as he sunk to his knees at Peter's doorstep, tears unable to be contained as he cried to Peter, 'I can't do this. I can't do this.' Over and over, every night. Peter took the powder, took the gear, and disposed of it. El pulled Neal up from his knees, guiding his shaking figure to the sofa where she sat him down, hugged him tight, and whispered softly to him that everything would be okay.

And he made it through the night, with a little help from his friends.

The day after the drug test, Neal is sitting at his desk, flipping paper footballs over Socrates, and quietly cheering to himself whenever he clears the statue's head.

"You plan on getting some work done today?" Peter suddenly asks, having appeared in front of Neal from out of nowhere. Neal glances up.

"What can I do?"

"You can start by getting your ass to the boardroom. But Hughes wants to see you first. Alone."

Neal looks down, nodding as he pushes himself up. He rolls up his sleeves, wincing as he sees the scars, and saunters up to Hughes' office.

Hughes looks up when Neal enters the room. "Neal. Good to see you."

"It's been about an hour, sir, but good to see you, too."

Hughes ignores Neal's quip, looking over paperwork. "Drug test came back."

"And what's the verdict?"

"Clean." He studies Neal for a moment, then adds: "As it should be."

Neal nods, grinning. "As it should be."

Hughes hesitates a moment, then shoves the paper into a file, marked with Neal's name. "We're proud of you, Caffrey. You've shown incredible strength. I understand why Burke keeps you around."

Neal smiles. "Just doing my job, sir."

"Keep doing it, you'll do just fine."

"Thank you, sir."

Hughes studies Neal for a moment, and Neal could swear he catches a glimmer of a smile in Hughes' eyes, but it's gone in a flash. "Now, get back to work."

"Yes, sir."

Neal turns, and saunters back to the boardroom. They're all staring at him. "What?"

"Neal, there's a man in the lobby who would like to see you. Says his name is Karl."

Neal's breath catches in his throat. "Karl. Did he say why he was here?"

"He did not. Do you need back-up?" Peter asks.

Neal shakes his head, pushing himself up out of his seat, that he had just taken. "No, no. I'll be fine. Thank you."

He exits, tapping his foot the whole way down the elevator, anxious. He stops when the elevator door opens and he sees Karl in the lobby, looking worse for wear.

"Karl," he can barely catch his breath. The strong man looks so beaten down, worn.

The man turns. "Neal."

"How can I help you, Karl?"

Karl smiles, it's almost a brief laugh. "You're free."

"Yeah, man. I'm free."

"Sober?"

"Clean and sober."

Karl does laugh. "That's… that's great, man. That's great. Good for you."

Neal studies Karl, the way he keeps shrugging his shoulders, scratching at his arms. "You're not," Neal says, with caution.

"Naw, man, not me. No way. I been in this shit for too goddamn long."

"There's help. There's a way out. Valentino is behind bars, you can kick this. You can get better."

"Without him, I'm nothing. I don't have a place to stay. I don't have a job. I don't have dope. I don't have anything. I need you to get him out."

Neal steps back, throwing his hands up in defense. "Whoa, whoa. The man who locked me up, that's who we're talking about here. He's serving his time."

Karl extends his arms, the sight of the pock-marked and scarred flesh making Neal sick to his stomach. "I need this, man. I need him back. He left a lot of lives behind."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. But we can get you help. We can get you into a program, even the one I went to, man. We can fix this."

"You went to rehab."

"28 days."

"And you did it."

"Clean as a whistle."

Karl stands for a moment, looking down. "That's… that's great, man." Neal nods. He glances over as the elevator dings, and sees Peter standing in the spot as the door slides open. Slowly, cautiously, he shakes his head. He can't let Karl go down for this. After all this man did for him. Peter nods once, turning as he exists and disappearing down a corridor. Neal looks back to Karl, who is scratching at his scarred arm.

"We can fix this," Neal repeats, careful, lifting one hand, as though not only his words will prove his promise, but the gentle lift of a hand. It's his word.

"I don't know what to do, Neal."

"We can help you. Let us help you."

"It's not… I'm not worth it."

"Don't say that. You-"

"I'm nothing, man-"

"You saved my life. Please." Karl looks out the door, studying something Neal can't see. Neal repeats his plea. "Please let me do the same for you."

The elevator dings again, and he glances over to see Agent Wesley exit, casually turning a corner to go about his business. But when Neal looks back to continue his argument, in efforts to save this man's life, Karl is gone. Neal runs to the door, glancing left and right, but the man has disappeared into the streets.

"Damnit!" Neal almost shouts, throwing up his hands. Peter emerges from the corridor.

"What the hell was that?"

"Just… a friend. Did a lot for me, when I was a prisoner." He pauses. "I just wanted to help him."

"He in your situation?"

"Sort of. Yeah. He is."

"And now he's gone."

Neal looks back out the big glass windows of the Bureau, scanning the people milling about. None of them are Karl. "Yeah. He's gone."

That night, Neal didn't go out. He didn't buy. He didn't show up at Peter's doorstep, voice hoarse as he whispered his plea for a return to sanity, something he had long ago lost.

He stayed with them, and they went on walks together. Neal, Peter, El, and Satchmo, together, protecting him. On several occasions, Satchmo would bark at people who passed by Neal, quickly jumping in front of Neal and protecting him.

Neal just laughed. And every day got a little bit better.


	22. On the Mend

CHAPTER 22

Neal swallows a scream when he wakes from the nightmare.

_"Don't… don't leave me. Sara. Sara!"_

_She climbs onto the plane. She turns in the doorway. She smiles. She waves. She climbs in._

_"Sara!"_

_A loud bang. The plane explodes. Flames everywhere, and Sara still stands in the doorway as the flames flick around her face. Casting the red hot light over her features, and swallowing her whole._

_"Sara!" Neal screams._

Then, he's awake. He sputters on the scream that couldn't leave his lips, coughing as he comes to.

Peter's bare feet slam into the wood in the distance. He skids to a stop in front of Neal's door, swinging it open. "Neal. Neal, are you alright?"

Neal coughs again, just waiting for it to pass. "I'm good. I'm good." He coughs again, clearing his throat. "Just a dream."

Peter stands, breathing heavily. "You're sure." Peter glances at his watch. "It's five A.M., want to just get up?"

Neal nods. He doesn't want to go back to sleep. "That sounds great."

They sit over breakfast. Drinking coffee. Eating cereal. Things normal people do. Neal enjoys it. Elizabeth pads down the steps, stopping when she sees the two men. "You're up. Both of you."

"Neal had a nightmare."

Neal gives Peter a pointed look. "Thanks, man."

"Anytime, buddy."

At the office, Neal is tapping a foot anxiously, frowning over some papers. Peter glances over at him.

"Hey." Neal looks up. "What's got you bothered?"

"Just… thinking. About a friend."

He was thinking about Karl. About everything the man did for him. Every time he pulled Neal up off the ground after he was miserably sick with withdrawals, when he didn't do what V asked, when whatever act he was asked to perform was outside his code of morals, even when that meant being denied the drug.

Every time Karl showed him mercy and injected Neal with some of his own stash, when the withdrawals were too much, when Neal had been injured so severely, he needed the analgesic relief.

And he thought about every time Karl just sat and talked to him. When Neal was losing self, losing hope, and losing his mind. When Neal mumbled to himself, stoned out of his mind, and hummed softly as the high settled over and around him like a drifting sheet, dancing in the wind. And Karl would just talk, comforting words of someday getting out of this place, this Hell, and getting clean. Neal had always dreamed of getting clean, when he was locked up. He dreamed about it more often than he dreamed about anything else. Getting out, getting clean, and once again, roaming the streets of Manhattan, a free man.

But even once he was set free, by V, and had the ability to leave, to escape, to find Peter, Neal never did… because the drug held him too tightly. Because he was too far gone, too in over his head, and far too addicted. Because he just couldn't.

Now, he sits in the office, reading over paperwork and doing what he loves most, surrounded by the people he loves. A free man. And Karl is still out there. Alone.

Then, Neal fell again.

He had spent a night with Sara, and when he caught her staring at his scars throughout the night, he exploded in anger. Why couldn't she accept this part of him, get past it? He asked her, and all she could say was, "I don't know, Caffrey."

She didn't know. She wanted to tell him it was because it reminded her of how broken he had become, how he wasn't the same man, even now that he was clean. She could have said the marks made her feel sick, because they did. She could have even said she was scared she had lost him, because that was true. All of those things were true, but they weren't why she was staring at the scars. She honestly couldn't tell him. And that night, he fell.

Peter tracked him to June's, where Neal had said hello to the lady of the house, hugged her close, and asked if he could see his home. He needed to pick up some things. When he didn't come out a few hours later, and June had knocked, only to find a locked door, she had called Peter.

And Peter found him, utilizing the spare key Neal had given him. He found Neal curled up on the sofa, humming softly through small tears and rocking back and forth as the comfortable numbness engulfed him. The needle still hung from his arm. The spoon lay on the coffee table, and the tourniquet on the floor by Neal's bare feet.

The younger man's hair was matted over his forehead as he perspired in the heat of the moment. His face remained calm, his eyes barely slitted open, and unfocused on anything.

"Neal," Peter tried, his voice cracking as the pain of seeing his friend this way ripped through him. "Neal, get up."

Neal simply huddled closer around the pillow, shutting his eyes all the way and moaning. "S'good."

Peter crouched on the ground next to his friend, pushing the younger man's hair up from his forehead. "Hey." Neal mumbled softly again, this time something Peter couldn't hear. "You feel good, kid. I know."

He plucked the needle from Neal's arm, taking great care not to hurt the kid, and set it on the coffee table to be disposed of later. June stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her mouth. "What's wrong with him?"

Peter stood, cautiously approaching June. "June, there's something you need to know. I should have told you sooner, you might have seen this coming, then."

"What is it?"

"Neal's struggling through something very hard right now. Drug addiction. He was in a bad situation, and was running with some bad people, and got hooked." He hesitates when he sees the horror in her eyes. "He's on the mend, though. Every day he gets a little better."

"But not today," she confirmed, shaking her head. Peter glanced back at Neal's figure, shifting on the couch and shivering.

"No. Not today."

A few days later, Neal fell again.

Sara had heard of his relapse and told him she wouldn't see him again until he was clean. This only diminished his last threads of hope, that his love could be salvaged, that this thing that had ruined his life wouldn't last forever, that he would get better, and his relationships would return to normal. Things weren't normal. Sara had left.

So Neal crouched in an alley, pulled the tourniquet tight with his teeth, and used trembling hands to guide the needle towards his vein. Peter skidded to a stop in front of the alley after tracking the kid, only to find Neal slumped against the wall, mumbling nonsense with his head leaned back against the brick and his jaw lulled open. Peter sighed, dragging him up and into the car.

About a week after that, Neal fell a third time. Peter had kicked him out, telling him not to come back, crying as he did. He couldn't let the kid hurt him anymore, hurt his family, hurt his life. He couldn't watch the kid hurt anymore either. He knew Caffrey was going to keep going, despite Peter doing everything he could. He knew the kid was going to die like this, and he wasn't ready to watch that happen.

Neal wandered the streets of Manhattan in a drugged daze, stumbling up to one of Mozzie's many doorsteps and knocking with a heavy fist. Mozzie had sighed upon seeing Neal in this condition at his doorstep, catching the falling figure before Neal's dead weight could hit the ground.

When Neal woke up a little bit, he excused himself to use the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, Moz opened the door to find Neal on the floor, propped up against the wall, cradling his scarred arm to his chest and singing softly, his dark curls tumbling over his eyes. The needle lay on the floor next to him. Mozzie crossed his arms in front of his chest, shaking his head in sorrow.

But then, two weeks later, after spending the entirety of the fortnight in a haze, locked up in Mozzie's home, Neal woke up in the bathroom, curled up in the tub with a needle hanging from his arm. He plucked it out, scrubbed his face over his hands, and realized, yet again, what he was doing. He climbed out of the tub, wandering out to the living area, where Mozzie sat drinking a glass of wine, reading the Weekly World News. Mozzie glanced up. His voice was bitter. "You're awake."

"Mozz, I'm so sorry," Neal shook his head. Mozzie waved it away.

"Doesn't mean anything, coming from you." Mozzie's words pierced Neal's heart. He shut his eyes, tears squeezing through.

"I'm… I'm sorry. I'm done. I'm done with this shit. For good."

Mozzie glanced up at Neal, taking off his glasses. "You're serious."

Neal nodded once, scratching at his arm. "I'm serious. I can't… I can't do it anymore." He paused. "I want my life back."

Mozzie scoffed. "I want my house back. It wasn't supposed to become a drug den."

Neal winced. "I'll clean it up. The whole thing. Just… just let me go talk to Peter."

Mozzie nodded.

And now, here, Neal stands in front of Peter's door, hand held in a fist in front of door. He can't bring himself to knock. He sighs, shoving up his sleeves, and shaking his head, before he turns around. He can't do this.

The door opens. Peter stands there, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Caffrey."

Neal turns. A tear spills from his eye and falls down his cheek when he sees Peter. He says his name aloud. "Peter."

"What are you doing here, Caffrey."

"I'm here to get clean."

"You mean that."

"I mean it."

"Then get inside," he mutters, motioning to Neal.

Neal follows him inside. Elizabeth is sitting on the couch, she quickly pushes her hair out of her eyes. Neal sinks to the sofa next to her. He can't look at her face.

Peter crouches in front of Neal. "Are we going to do this for real, this time?"

"It won't ever happen again. Not for the rest of my life. Never."

And Peter smiled, because he could tell, for once, Neal wasn't lying.

**A/N: Okay friends, this is the second to last chapter! Next one will be out within the week. Love to all.**


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